Like Mary Quant sister had the look – groomed in etiquette, poise and fine dining while my boyish antics merited mixology prep one destined for
My memory of you – distorted by childish exuberance – distant and disinterested Translated vacant eyes through the lens of my needs child that I
Progress – seldom linear – tosses me into unexpected decline – stranded and incapacitated. My son – with labour-hardened strength leaps to my side, steadying
Drop words like scat – an odorous trail, mixed ramblings, deterring detection – from numinous and life-affirming to egregious and vile – follow me if
Relentless this turmoil, fear-driven storm battering psyche, beating me down… Hope trails, a gossamer thread, a faint flutter, refusing to die. (Tuesday are for Twitter.
Who ghosts desire? I long for a kiss, my glass belly ice & concrete clouding our porcelain peace. A good woman lingers, then after voices