This is My Heart

(National Poetry Month HitRECord challenge)

This is my heart:
it is made of clay
and bits of leaves
and the seeds of bitter melons.

Hold it cupped,
Like an offering,
Because it is.

Breathe upon it,
and it will beat,
for you, one-two,
one-two.

Love

(National Poetry Month HitRECord challenge)

Love
Does not reside
in the heart
like a box
that only opens
once
per
beat.

Oh, no, it is in
the marrow of my
leg bones,
the hinge of my knees,
the way both tremble
and shudder
when you exhale.

It is in the sinew,
the soft belly under my navel,
my fingertips and calluses,
in each strand of muscle
that stretches,
and pulls
Us together.

Hear Me

(National Poetry Month HitRECord challenge)

I am that wicked creature
that is not man,
but Lilith's daughter;
I come now to say unto you:

I am the knife in your night,
the dragging step on your dark stair,
the bell, the book and the candle,
the midnight striking in your clockless room.

I am the low-flying bomber you don't hear coming,
I am the human mislabeled as man's rib,
I am the disregarded, deep inside your defenses.

I am the banked fire and the luminous fury,
Every catcall is fuel for my flames.
You have never seen me coming,
Because you never thought to look.

Late Blossom

(04/27/2016 National Poetry Month HitRECord challenge)

The cherry blossoms
Have fallen all but one: Late,
nestled, at the heart.

Oh Girl

(04/26/2016 National Poetry Month HitRECord challenge)

Oh, girl

I got the gun,
still warm in my hand,
and powder residue
gonna send me to the chair.

Oh, girl,
Oh, girl,
Oh, girl, she dead on the floor
And me dead with her.

I thought:
She betrayed me,
Broke her promise
To be true,
And what promised me,
She let loose in the sheets
of some other man.

Oh, girl,
Oh, girl,
Oh, girl, she dead on the floor
And me dead with her.

I could blame Iago
But it's me what done it:
Took to doubt like liquor,
And pulled that trigger.

Oh, girl.

When It's All Gone

(04/25/2016 National Poetry Month HitRECord challenge)

When it's all gone:
the warm divot of the pillow,
the scent on the shirt,

When it's all gone,
when there's nothing left
but your pain, your loss,
the tears in the back of your throat,

How can you let that pain go,
when it is the last piece of your love,
so still and so precious,
left cupped in your hands?

Civil

(04/24/2016 National Poetry Month HitRECord challenge)

There is a muddy patch at Gettysburg
That has eaten the names and lives
of countless boys in uniform.

The earth beneath the rows of cannons
is drunk on blood and valiant speeches.

None can tell the color of their clothes any more.
Soldier and foe look the same when they're dead,
Spoiled together across green farmland that now only dreams in red.