Widow Wearing Lipstick

I understand why we mark time in inches of hair,
why we say, "the day this grew, you were with me,"

and let it fall in clumps on the linoleum.
Blessed be the name of Lord.

Color is too soon,
we are allowed sorrow.












Italics: Job 1:21c

Wonderlust

Eat me, Drink me
everything said,
and now I am too large, too small
for this house, these windows cutting out
the same scene as before.

In a month's time, in a year's time,
what will have shrunk and grown?
I want to know.
For now I am ashamed
to find me feverish, insipid,
fearing touch.

If I have returned too blown,
chasten me.

I only ask
You make me once more
wonder at the world,
break against the leaves in hunger,
blow with purpose, burn with charity,
Eros,
which so claimed
my life before.

Let's have no more
of wanderlust.




--
Italics: Reference to Lewis Carroll's "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland."
"Break...blow...burn," from John Donne, Holy Sonnet 14

From Arms to Arms

To be sure, they have created
threescore kinds of wheels, and more,
and touch is bought and sold,    but no one
traveled so before  -

from arms to arms, and lingering

as the last lick of sun
on shoulders. 

I will go home

I will go home
with empty arms
and a heart like a honeycomb.