For the
Ex-Girlfriend
She's the kind of girl who’s always leaving,
forging rifts that pound down gut expression.
Her absence wrecks religion, restraining
even signs of the smallest fledgling explosions.
She is not the rose petal-ed sweet goddess,
eyes not golden dust from sky's Orion,
not the keeper of the light whose deep kiss
seeps into one's blood and without trying
inflames magically flickering fingers.
She is not grace.
She holds sudden harsh steel, yet pureness
of a rain cloud's shadowy quake.
She’s destroyed hearts, harvests with single threats.
She is not a goddess, I have no shrine,
but to those waiting in line, she's all mine.
How She Deals with Boys
Much like young dogs,
my sister used to hold her tongue between her teeth.
She was two the day she stopped cradling it,
still toddling
as she shifted unsteadily towards stairs
that were trimmed in some sort of shiny metal.
She slipped and her soft chin hit the third stair
causing her to bite the tip completely off.
They sewed it back into its traditional space
but ever since,
she's learned to keep her tongue in place.
