Bathing beauties

The faded photo
in Mother's hallway
reminds me of you.
Our bellies are full and
our cheeks are round
(we were unembarassed
by this back then) and we
laugh in the sun-filled
summer of youth.


PAD #16 - snapshot

Grandma swore

Grandma swore a whole lot.
Mom and Dad did not.
She smoked and cussed and
the Little Me feared her
fierce, loud love.

She would offer them a drink.
And the ice would clink
as she recanted the faces and
places she'd loved
so fearlessly.

PAD #15 - profile

In the mirror

It's so much simpler to
see ourselves in
others' eyes than our own.


PAD #15 - profile poem

In between

Between your legs
Between the sheets
Between you and
your girlboygod

PAD #14 - "ain't none of my business" poem

My Bonnie lies

I napped next to you
when I was young
and again when I was
grown, nestled next

to the withered woman
who once changed
my diapers and
chastized my bad

manners. Your breath
was soft and smooth
then. The years of
smoke had settled

into your cough but
not your dreams,
unlike the mask that
buried your frail face

when I slept next to
you one last time
and held your hand
as you slipped away.


~ to Grandma Bonnie

PAD #13 - remembering an old relationship

Sunday mass

Form a line to the left, please.
Your bellies will be full soon,
if you'd just leave the sacks and
bags, the lives you carry with you
like a shell, at the side of the room.
Please just eat and smile this hour
without that weight on your shoulders.


Dedicated to the homeless men and women who've fed my soul more than I've probably fed theirs.



PAD #12: form poem

Maybe chapstick

Maybe I'd know what your
lips tasted like
if I'd stuck around longer

Maybe I'd have noticed the
way you licked
your lips as you stared

Maybe I'd have seen you
pull out your
chapstick and look away soothed


PAD #11: Maybe (blank)

Where to?

Where have you come from,
young man? Weren't
you the boy whose curls

I stroked and forehead I
kissed, not so
long ago, after a nightmare.

Where have you gone, young
man? Running so
quickly into the world's bosom,

that temptress who will never
love you, my
little one, as I have.


PAD #10 - never again

6 o'clock

Papa clocked out at 6 p.m.
His inky fingerprints
were all he left behind.

He walked in at 6:14.
His meaty, grease-
stained fingers stroked our faces

and left the indelible stain
of fatherly love
on our faces and hearts.


PAD #9: time of day

A little harder

We pat ourselves on the back
for listening to the inner voice
that told us to love a little harder.
And we should.

PAD #8: celebration poem