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I could crush her.
Wonder how many small
things of beauty—flowers,
seashells, dragonflies—
have met such a demise.
Wonder how much fragile
love has collapsed
beneath the weight of confession.
ENOUGH ALREADY
One too many lit classes,
I guess. A little too much poetry,
dredged up at all the wrong times.
Thanks so much for that, Mom.
You’ve got a poet’s soul, she told
me once. And an old soul at that.
Whatever that means. I don’t feel
so old, for the most part. I do like
words, but this is not the time
for them, nor is it the time for
confessions. There is invitation
in Nikki’s eyes. It’s time for that.
THE WOOD
In her room is cherry—deep
reddish brown. Elegant.
The sheets on her bed are black
satin. Slick beneath desire-
dampened skin. Her hair is like
a sunburst against the onyx-
colored pillowcase. Its perfume
spices the air with ginger
