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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.

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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.

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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.

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Limbo

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

gone in limbo
under clotheslines;

an angel
escorting me
through the gate.

~

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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.

~

2

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.

~

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Subdivision

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.

~
~