Untitled Prose Poem 1

The bird bent her head to the small, flat dish and nibbled on a saltine. Beside it sat two pieces of celery which she chomped into small bites with her sharp beak and which fell from her mouth and cluttered the ground. Hunger clung to her ribs like a safety blanket, her narrow bones protruding at odd angles.

            Her mother landed beside her, offering her the full course she held in her talons.

            “Eat,” she said, but her daughter turned to the celery and continued her slow chomping. “Please,” her mother begged.

But instead the girl straightened from her meal and flew away.

When the Love Runs Out

When the love runs out
it will use the household vents
to escape

it will drift out with the heat
leaving you with the air conditioning
you so desired.

Drama Belongs on the Counter

Drama belongs on the counter
where it can be kneaded
unneeded
chopped into blocks
of misunderstanding
spiced and spiked
with too many words
baked, roasted, fried
until it comes out beautiful.

Is This How You Get Undressed

Is this how
you get

undressed
until your

naked skin
glistening with

sweat dripping
down your

back sticking
to mine.

Is this how
you get

undressed
your ticklish

fingers creeping
fabric up toward

my head is
spinning with

thoughts competing
for attention.

Is this how
you get

undressed
first your

shirt tucked in
to your

skirt spread
out on the

bed before
nudity.

Is this
how

you get
undressed.

You Leave Burn Marks with Your Fingers

My lips locked between yours

like a puzzle

fingers interlaced with hair

Set me on fire

You kissed my collarbone

up the crevice in my neck

dipped down to the space

between my breasts

left kiss-shaped marks

like cigarette burns

Your fingers fit perfectly

into the little dimples

of my lower back

pressing down like buttons

heating the space

between

Your hand wrapped around my ribs

clicked into its niche betwixt

my rib bones and breast

It was made just for you

to hold, to heat

to burn

Your knees woven into mine

beneath the quilt

light fingers tracing

electric patterns

Your touch leaves burn marks

where you’ve sealed me to you.