My limp beige bra, your torn suede slippers,
pink viles, violet pills, pots of vomit,
pools of vaseline
I rub jelly into fresh bed sores,
cover you, tuck our soft afghan,
stripes of apricot and tomato,
under damp skin, sweep
sweats of silver hair
from your forehead
and fall asleep, a dog
by your feet, until
Published in Dream Noir Art and Lit Magazine
I am 16
and sneak out of the sanctuary
during the rabbi’s sermon,
we search for trouble, find Manischewitz
and guzzle dixies, giggling through front doors,
like third-graders in June.
Arms filled with soft tallit,
we toss sneakers like lost grenades onto
the little beach, rest borrowed prayer shawls
in damp sand
and kiss silent under stars
as holy fringes tickle our skin.
Published in Cliterature Magazine
We always take the furthest spot, eager to walk
the flat expanse of the parking lot.
On occasion you smile in these first days
swollen with hope,
late June sunshine on your shoulders,
the Dogwood just in bloom.
Hot, you wave a limp wrist
motioning me to park nearer.
The tree is laden with green now
like emerald stars. Ghosts float
through glass doors.
Hip, kidney, bone. You hobble from car to
lobby filled with mums and pumpkins.
That wool cap fits loosely now, your face still
the sleeves of your cardigan slip.
The wheels on your chair thin, snow deep.
This final infusion is
your Simon of Cyrene sips
coffee with security as I
recline the seat and
writhe you out.
Published in Vita Brevis Press