Swollen 

for H.

It wounds me that I can’t tempt him

from his fate, but

I did feel beautiful this morning, 

weeping in the shower

and charmed by my cartoon 

balloon eyes—

skin stretched tight,

catching the light.

You should see them (he should,

he has, no avail). 

They are lovely, open sores, ripe

with paradox:

swelling up the more

they’re drained out.  

Voyeur’s Video 

for C.

The memory is hazy,

the photographic still 

of the memory I keep

in my head, more so.

It’s a fraction of face,

with the ear center frame,

little blonde hairs wisping

around, too short to tuck,

but I tried anyway. 

When the still breaks into

memory in motion,

that’s what I see: a hand, 

desperate to possess.

I don’t know that the hand 

is mine until the film blurs,

and I’m back in my body,

feeling my fruitless fingers:

I couldn’t reach him. 

Was the graze as good,

as the grasp might have been?

Next time I had his head

near me, I tucked it tight

under my chin.

Image Credit to the author.


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