Petal Moon

I packaged my prayers in a powder blue box and sent them to heaven by the wings of a dove.

At the beach we scour for spiraled shells and ponder the presence of severed sea heads bluefish and atlantic sharp nose sockets hollowed but still boasting teeth bodies bagged by leathered men who pocket the soft money middle and toss out the thinking par…

Marinating the proof of life in my orbitals with pastel avocado cream.

I am not a mother but I have fished a killing cashew from mushy maw balanced a squirming puddle of dough on bony boxy hip wept over an economy seat back tray your summer blonde strawberry ringlets cannot be brushed across this ocean ⋮°˖✧𓆩✧𓆪✧˖°⋮ Author's N…

My mother will never die.

At seven I ponder a stalactite as an icicle, too callow to fathom a million year marvel, modernity a squirming embryo in the wet womb of its acid etched mother.

On the battlefield of summer sidewalk I stoop to observe a battalion of ants recycling a portly sergeant cicada.

Crass kiss and wolf whistle thrown from the open window of a polished blue pickup, slowing to match my sun sapped stride.

We take to the tunnels like moles feeding on the wormy remains of unfettered opulence squinting through smoke stung eyes and grasping at glittering dust swirling in sparse slatted moonbeams like snow

The dozing leopard cub drapes a padded paw over the soft spotted back of its sleeping mother.

Driving home from the airport at night, smear of headlight and drone of wheel on road, this liminality rests on the top shelf of recollection.