He Cannot Change Her [poetry]

She clothes herself in her past transgressions
And she likes how she looks in them
Their style
Their color
Their length

But he would strip her naked of her past
Just to dress her like a doll he likes
But he’s not her
He can’t change her—
No

She dresses herself in everything he hates
Although she’s really everything he loves
Her sex
Her world
Her life

But he would strip her naked of her religion
Just to dress her like the Christ he wears
But he’s not her
He cannot change her—
No

Lavender [poetry]

She likes how she looks in lavender
No deep yellows to energize his permanence for her
No hot pink except inside
No rich purple royal sainthood
Or the vibrant green envy and jealousy he loves
No riotous reds to make him want to strip off her dress
No

No stark raving vehemence ready to explode from someone really intense inside
None of his wolf eyes disguised in wonderment
No raging fingers coursing the river of her hair
No rapids of lustful desire
Or the acid tongue and blade-like words he dominates with
No
No no

She likes how she looks wearing lavender today
Wrapped in a romance without him

Ice [poetry]

Night in the city has a strange sound
The way roof ice speaks before it melts
Pools down
Rushes gutters
Raises the river’s rage below me

Melted ice flows over my boot tops
Down interwoven streets with city signs that claim they take us to
Homes
Schools
Businesses
Somewhere
Anywhere
Everywhere that is nowhere to you at night
When you choose to sit and go nowhere
Except to lean closer to the flickering light that distracts your notions

Your diversion’s surround-sound voices tell you how to think
They muffle the important sounds outside your curtained windows
Of me
Of us
Of melted ice
Slipping down interwoven roads to nowhere but the future and our plight

Journal [fiction]

Sarah started up a journal again. Not a diary; not those odd books she kept during puberty when life was full of mysteries, marvels, and angst almost every day. This was going to be a journal of perceptions. She liked the word annotations, so she titled her book Annotations On Life. (Perceptions Of a Wonderer was her second choice … a playful use of words.)

Parts of her book would be filled with observations. Some of them superficial, of course, because time at her bank job did not allow her to dig deep. Other parts of her journal would be collections of thoughts and life lessons. She could barely wait to grow old so she could read her story.

She wondered if she would have children someday. A child, at least, to share her book with, a legacy to live on when her life’s story had reached its end.