Dominated by a Day


Particolored Joy

Unfair fields mock my festivities.
Out here my breath turns to flowers.
I am a sprinkle.
I am the whole fluffy cake with buttercream frosting.
The pianist plays among the poppies ,
The flutist in the daffodils.
But the field opens up its maw
at the far end of the horizon,
and everything falls in,
Particolored joy abating in a black abyss.

Earth and Water

Obese clouds

in shades of sweat pant gray and

office tile white

promise rain to my dry, dry Earth.

The ants have been doing their rain dance for days,

twigs like tiny stilts the building blocks to their effigies.

I have been wrapping rainbows around my wrists,

sculpting the scavenging ground into beautiful lakes to

attract the clouds,

tell them there is room enough on this gregarious field

for earth and water.

I wait every night for the sea to spit my husband out,

undigested and handsome.

I like to straddle the dry lake bed,

the navy sea,

and wait for gifts from ether and water.


The winter comes again,

Staying in my corner, you change his plagues.

There are times when people are afraid.

I can not invite him in.

I build a summer house and he is not compatible.

He screams and hail falls upon me,

shrill and sharp.



The afternoon latches and lunches

on my milky breasts.

My chest a shelf that weighty demons sit on.

Outside in the rocky yard Good Health and Old Age fight.

My eyesight is incredibly blue

and the world is incredibly pink,

so my life is biased toward purple.

I am as executable and cuddly as a queen.

The river is dry.

No baby boys float in baskets among the reeds.

My body floats off to sleep,

my mind sinks into self,

diving deeper and deeper to the mulberry core.


Bipolar Drugs

At night I cannot sleep.

At dawn I cannot wake.

My husband puts the frantic tv on

for our daughter.

It is always a little too happy to be of service.

The laundry shifts uneasily on its weight.

The bunny judges me.

and I am dreaming of past school days,

Wispy as smoke and elusive as rights.

The day is fine

like baby hair.

Every hour must be combed and tended.

It is time to rise,

entranced by the past,

entrenched in the present.