Sonny’s Bagels

The jar says tips for girls
the girls are old,
round & Russian
thick sexy accents
Borscht with Sour Cream.

Poured into fitted jeans
gems mounted on rear pockets,
hunched over worn countertops
they sweep butter across

bread, fling beads of
sweat with dingy sleeves.
August in Jersey,
both ovens blasting.

Blushing, I drop a dollar,
she grants me a nod
as her colleague hands me a present,
wrapped in parchment.

(C) 2019 Stacey Z. Lawrence, All Rights Reserved.

Published in Chaleur

Belt

He is eleven, nearly a man
when the belt’s buckle catches
under his skin, a wriggling fish.

As usual he
grips the kitchen sink
stares at the faucet drip
as she whips.

He never cries, but this time
bloody puddles stain
his white socks, the canvas
of his Converse,
gore trickles down his leg.

She places it
on the counter,
bits of her boy’s ass impaled
on sharp metal prong.

She tidies right up,
sweeps a dish towel across the wound
applies pressure and whispers,
sorry.

published in Dream Noir

Leaves

April sings warm through the
soft afternoon, pink air on my lips
that tune in my ear, you on my mind
A brook trickles over jagged rocks, I cross
crossing, balancing on sharp slippery stones.
happily stretching my foot to shore.

Now, I sit on a stone wall, sad
like Humpty Dumpty
walk miles rocky over wooded path of mud
skeletal remains of leaves left dead
to stamp, tromp, tramp on
soil’s brown hybridized with a tree’s innards,

wondering.

(C) 2019 Stacey Z. Lawrence, All Rights Reserved.

Published in Vita Brevis

Plums

PLUMS

Her probe strokes my breasts.
Young woman, white coat,
short blond hair like Sandy Duncan, studies a screen.
Shivering I squirm, brumal metal bed
as her wand shifts left, deep within my pit. Her
countenance revealing a flash of pity as
she shoves hair behind her ear, rubs
my shoulder, orders me to contort my arm
high above my head, gel
warms my chest, like Bubby’s Camphor oil,
more computer clicks,
the doctor has arrived.

Mass, tumor, growth,
small, stage, spread
Arrows, I cannot avoid, zinging
just like they did at my children’s father,
just sixteen months ago,
he is dead.

Delivered into a small room, pink robed,
I sit alone
chair in a corner, little Jack Horner,
poster of a smiling woman tacked to
a beige wall,
I wait,
fiddle with bracelets, twirl the curls
of my hair, blow my nose,
the clock pounds.

A nurse struts in, takes
my temperature, checks my
blood pressure, tells me
I have Cancer…
a seed,
she smiles.

So I trade my
old tits in-
bruised avocados for
sweet plums.

(C) 2019 Stacey Z. Lawrence, All Rights Reserved.

Published in VITA BREVIS