His Little Secret

I could have written about daffodils

but, I chose you,
because some days,
pain seems to pull poetry;

birth words
from intimate places.

I still can’t understand
the concept of unloving;
shutting a door you opened-
flipping the script on a life.

You can silence me
but, never my existence,
though you have tried,

This dirty little secret
is still blooming

but, don’t despair, daddy
as I step away discreetly
with my self-respect
and a fist full of daffodils.


Rethinking Sticks and Stones

Past springs forth
like seasons
when words flowed
from indifferent lips.

Residue travels through thoughts,
clings to ribs like a constant ache;
last messages sent, letters unopened-
marked “return to sender,”
and your last words still sting-
burn all the way down

like alcohol;

like my eyes
on Father’s day.


Tea Party

Place settings for four,
Mom brought violets
for the centerpiece;
dolls in their Sunday best,
me, in pigtails
and my favorite dress.

His voice always did startle me.

Grandma brought glue
for the handle.

If only my heart was porcelain.



I’ve worn a path
in circles
‘round begonias,

gone in limbo
under clotheslines;

an angel
escorting me
through the gate.



Until You Greet Me With White Roses

I’ll have coffee on the porch swing
remembering how we laughed
when my feet didn’t touch the ground;

how we planned to grow old
watching fireflies
swirl ribbons ‘round willows;
dandelion dust carrying wishes
to clouds I wish I could see past

because I know there’s light
where you are.



I don’t know what to call you

Is there a pronoun,
for this heartbreak?

I see images of you
in chalk stick figures
on sidewalks;

in that last dance
we never had.




She walked in wildflowers,
tickling feelings
with thoughts of him
and poetry under willows,

but, they cemented the park

leaving only petalled remnants
peeking through the cracks.