Flowering Fable

Fold me into your nook
like a flower pressed in a book
that we will always write.
Hold me like a phrase
that swoons across your page
and pollen bursts our night.

Kiss me like a poem
with words we use so seldom
whose power dethorns the rose.
Touch me with just one letter
like the simplest flower gets her
down the spine of our prose.

Lay me down like a petal
in our words, let me settle
naked on the kitchen table.
Caress me with your word play,
rhyming me until I splay
between the covers of our fable.


For Every

For every field of battle,
for every kilojoule in anger,
for every hurt out of love,
for every night of tears,
for every laugh to humiliate,
for every blocking from pride,
for every word in distrust,
for every deed of resentment,
for every lie – period!
For every shout from rage,
for every love that wasn’t,
for every glance in disgust,
for every lash from the tongue,
for every slam in frustration,
for every minute of bickering,
for every burst of impatience,
for every one who wasn’t you,

I’ll kiss her 1,247 times
and I won’t be counting,

I’ll listen, listen, listen,
then kiss her tongue,

I’ll carry her to our bed
and follow her instruction,

I’ll talk, talk, talk,
until she says I got it,

I’ll get down on my knees
and anything else she wants,

I’ll take her to the moon
on Sunday afternoons.

Now…where is she?


Potosi is so old, so tragic,
its history is forged
from wordless memories,
of voices so forbidden,
so buried,
we will never know its stories.

A silver tongue long raided,
its dignity smelted from flesh,
generations of silver crosses
praised in cathedrals
of indigenous bones,
monuments that will never talk
for all the silver in the world.