His cat was dead.
Ours was a garden party,
ranunculus in every color
no relief for
fur-brushed blood
against a bleached
white t-shirt.
I’m glad my birthday’s finally here.
I’ve waited for it one whole year.
I’m old enough to clean my room.
I’m old enough to weed.
I’m old enough to go to school
and old enough to read.
There once was a woman, grown older,
whose man said her love should be bolder:
“In a romantic sense,
your libido’s past tense.”
His reward? The bold, icy cold shoulder.
We sit.
She, burgundy chair.
Me, blue leather sofa.
Like so many times
before, days of yore.
She used to watch me,
claim me, eyes love-lit.
I’d blush. You’re staring, Mom.
But I put up with it.
The spirit finds home
inside warm flesh and bone,
taking ownership,
giving direction.
Should the formula fail,
appetite will prevail,
driving action
without due reflection.
His spirit crawls a lowly road
with little will to rise.
Leaves falling from the trees reprise
tears falling from his eyes.
I used to have a firefly inside me,
a certain spark against the dark of night,
her wings translucent threads of hope and dreaming,
her glow as magical as soft starlight.