Mastectomy
The fog that forces season's change
has somehow seeped into her house;
no offshore breeze lifts the palm fronds
or stirs the curtains at her door.
Damp sheets cling to her
like lambskin gloves,
or hairs upon a mouse.
A misted mirror shows her face
behind a murky mask that tires
her with its epigraphs to love
or hatred or compassion.
The head scarf shrouds
beauty deep inside her
a mole in the dark
splashed upon her face.
Scales on her eyes freeze
when she removes her blouse,
sky caves in, soul flattens,
heart pinches, crucified,
alone on her bed of nails.
And still the fog hangs on
where long ago she walked the sands
daring the sun to burn her down.
Far off along the shore,
sea sounds mute the silent change
her tongue of fire and ice is still.
A POEM FOR EVE
She is an ice-blue distant galaxy
approachable but through a lens of fantasy;
In her I spy visions of fire and fury
exploding light and passion at her core.
If I could fly once more
to pierce the dark surrounding space
come into close orbit
I might revolve around her
Endlessly.
Space is so empty
galaxies so far
the gravity of her so great
that I will surely be drawn in
burned alive.
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