40
years ago. Was
I asking for it? Why
I hate jazz, not the music. Damn
white boy.

We were three
sisters in boredom
searching for something/anything

to break the monotony
of an unholy Saturday night,
the one before Easter morning.

We were three students,
running 10 years too late
to be cool. Ready

to risk freezing,
we were three fabric shedders,
dashing through the science library.

We were three distractions
for pre-meds desperate to see beyond
endless pages of MCAT practice tests.

We were three marchers,
who slipped, one by one,
down the aisle, passed front and center,

as everyone in the audience watched
Elvis and his jailhouse rockers
on the big screen.

We would have to wait
5 more years for Public Enemy
to call him out.

Applause filled the auditorium
by the time I brought up the rear
in a pair of red socks.

Did we own
“too shy to streak” underwear?
We’ll never tell.

We were three:

Clotho spinning,
Lachesis measuring,
Atropos cutting the thread.

We were three
sisters, ready
to determine our own fates.

summer
comes out shooting
astronomical OR
meteorological NOT
unreal

and now
the kitchen sink
tossed behind a dumpster
becomes everything she cannot
ignore

Pallets
of palette knives
go missing in the night
with fire and other palate
cleansers

last night
wind or lightning
split open an old tree
so grand how can we live without
its shade

what if
burning forest
understories could clear
out the decay for everything everyone
to grow

listen
listen listen
listen listen listen
I need to shut up and listen
to you

We were
so immortal
we would jaywalk across
Washington at night defying
our fear.

Playwrights
knit their stories
to a high chain link fence.
Who knows how or when it will fall
apart.

I’ve been
dining with one
mannequin for decades.
She wears that old vial necklace
he made.

Remove
all the mirrors.
Turn up the radio.
Admit it, you do miss them. Damn
skyways!

Refuse
to dine inside
together till you see
plexiglass pendant head surrounds
in place.

Halos.
Helmet shields. How
many boys did you kiss
in those couch graveyard cellars
back then?

I don’t
remember what
happened to the front porch.
Gone overnight, wood railings, steps,
and all.

And that
whip-its mishap.
She said she’d never seen
anyone with singed-off eyebrows
before.

Smeared-ink
past lives collide
inside a tank covered
in tally marks I drew without
thinking.

I wish I could be there
for the seahorse
when she growls.
Build a coral cave for privacy

when she and her future
mate begin to click.
I wish I could propel myself
slowly through eelgrass beds

and sing of sunken nights
as I reach the next
stratified layer
in the water column

without choking on the wait
for a miracle.