New Little Vines. Here is this week’s array.
Does toxic talk make you shiver?
Me neither, usually. But I fear above all else
Death by mildew.
oh dear there’s a dirty little secret I just spilled
I need to mop it up quick
and rinse it down the drain.
at least a year of arguing
with a renewable option for up to three years –
that’s my final offer. Take it or leave it.
Happy anniversary and champagne sparkles.
Let’s stop talking and instead –
Wait. I think I hear the baby waking up.
she was asleep on the brown sofa
one hand flung over the edge
as if reaching for the slice of cold pizza
fallen face-down on the carpet below
Today winter will
exfoliate the tender skin of your face
with the tiniest pellets of sleet I’ve ever seen.
the doctor was double-booked
the patient was on her lunch break
We need to save time. Let’s do the job in the elevator.
Plot #72 in the hospital TV drama playbook
Looking back, I wonder
if a lighter touch with the cayenne pepper –
but no. I used exactly the right amount.
this lovely snowflake
a lacy bit of meteorological frippery
fallen into my palm
I strain the just-cooked pasta over the sink.
The endless dripping pounds at my nerves.
I shriek. And tell the kids to call out for pizza.
I lie down with a cold pile of rigatoni on my forehead.
She’s trying to heal his broken heart
That doctor who just now left the room
But it’s not really her job. It’s mine.
Enjoy a light touch of below zero
blueviolet toes and chattering teeth
Stand in the periwinkle snow at sunset
breathe in the shards of icicle air.
but let’s stop pretending
a referral to a good hairdresser
is all it’s going to take
I left the room
taking my dumb ass mistakes with me
I’ll see if I can find a them buyer out on the street
I feel pretty certain I will
big loss to the dance world when those
quick-toed tap-dancing caterpillars quit
to become butterflies.
this melting flake of snow
a winter butterfly
gone too soon
did she mention me
the wounded lemon
whose sugar-sweetened blood she drinks?
into that bathtub, young man
said the mama worm to her son worm
you’ve been playing in the dirt all day
this absurd overcoat
holes in its pockets sleeves in rags
a slice of pizza fallen behind the lining
musical skeletons whose
knucklebones rise and fall in unison
twang a mournful remorseful tune
Oh I love that languid strumming sound
how happily we did do it
gulp rain and spit it out
the sound of the traffic in the street
the small rhythms of it
that keep me from coming undone
is the only friend I have left
tyrant though it is