squirrels, acting as if
they are on bath salts, devour random
pieces of my hibiscus tree. All claws
and teethly concentration. Petals, bark,
buds, nothings spared their savagery.
I watch them from behind
the screened porch door, meet
their unstartled stare. It clearly resonantes:
I instinctively touch my face, wish
for a more solid partition.
The Tree Was There
My sister laughs, now, 40+
years later, attempting to explain
how she once broke the cast
on her already broken arm.
The perfect example of stupidity, unrelenting
competitiveness, she was 8 and a half and following
our brothers lead, determined, as always,
not just to keep up but to outdo
them in their own pursuits. She succeeded, of course.
Her double damage sustaining an infamy
worthy of decades of retelling
despite its lack of causing
a standing prayer
a searching forest
ink to paper
I Am Glass
Half-empty, a mouth
open wide in welcome hope
of precipitation. There is always
too much desert to allow a spike
in my level. I have an aptitude
for arid. Hollow, my cactus
covering is more costume than
functioning form of life.
I remain, gutted
shell, rooted in quick-
sand, a sinking icon of economical
deluge. There is a possibility
I could swallow myself at any moment,
a choking outpour of dust.