Alphabet Soup Minuscule

The Laundry Maid

Tucked Tight

Can you enervate through this CAPTCHA, fully?


To truly purview inside this head,  this heart?
So that you can be dressed in,
These velvet insecurities that I wear.
Like a brooch.
Tucked tight to your blazer.

The Last Crop

I have become the last crop,

Before the frost.

That one piece of produce,
That has built my many roots deep,
Into the earth.

The yield you save till the very end,

And then pull on me gently.
With each skive of your thick fingers,
You take with you a little more of me.
To prune me from this place I have,
Become accustomed to.
This place that has kept me,
Warm and secure. 

Still, I have one less root driven below.
I have one less temerity.
I wonder if my color is still bright,
If my flesh is still worthy of your lips.
Though I am bruised,
My avowel is imperturbability.
I am aplombed in my shape, my firmness.
To the hands who will,
 Pluck me from this ground.
To keep me, show me.
He is not the knight,
But the sword.

Water Still

The drip, drip, drip of the faucet,

Sends the water rippling by my toes.
Painted coral, like the June sun that I long to watch set over me again.

Instead I am still, 
Here.
I am still amongst the water.
And the water,
It too is still.
Except for the ripple after the drip.

It has become cold.
Still,  I can’t even get out.
My skin puckers tight.
As if it just sucked on a lemon.

Even it feels more than I.
I just sit here.
I sit here sucking back men without guns and dealers with no cards.

I lay back with these novels and poems
These words that pop up on paper.
But not at my door.

And still my heart beats heavier and slow, slow,  slower with each let down.

I lay back, even older than noon.
Wanting the cards.
Needing the guns.
To heat up what’s cold.
To burn me alive.

To cast a thousand monarchs inside me once again.
So that I may feel the tickle of their wings,
So that I may feel my heart race.

Instead, I watch the water still.

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