Fifteen in February
me into flannel sleeves and rubber boots,
folding me in tender contours, brush-stroked with a thousand fears
all kissed and stroked by the glowing
Rowena, who smiled like a butch Mona Lisa below the tapestry
duct-taped to the wall.
I carry the compost buckets
from the noisy kitchen, out the screen door
into the cold, purplish gloom.
I remember the tremor
of long lashes fluttering my cheek
a night moth drawn to light or love.
I move over ice
glazing the vast Iowa mud. My sneakers slide on its pocked surface,
hard as toffee over molars,
my thoughts smoking upward, swirling and soft.
She gave me her warm, bisqued body
on the calico sheets
so freely, her slim
Later, she cast her wide
smile over my face like a sunrise. Did I blush, even in negative 12
degrees? And I
she waits for me now, tempting and safe as a honeysuckle sepal,
anther and filament,
but dangerous and dark
they don't understand.
Will she pull me again with winter rapture
into the silk of flesh,
and curves so smooth
as smooth as
driftwood on rivers of milk?
Will her thoughts skim over mine
wind over prairie grass,
rapids on river stones, their quiet needs lapping in the dark?
The pigs gobble as leftovers fall
from my buckets. They revel in their meal, unashamed of their
pleasure. A noodle dangles over a bristled ear,
I can see it so clear
in the honest light of the brood clamp
on the splintered beam.
A baked potato steams on the
back of a sow
like a kneecap. And I turn into
the winter wickedness, my young flesh dissolving under the
unquenched gaze of the Iowa moon.
I toss a fallen cupcake, somehow still intact, to
the revelers, smiling still
walking toward the girls' dorm
trapped below ice
my empty buckets stinking
and swinging in the purple arms of
No More Blue-Necked Ladies
Straddling the backs of dolphins, we’re glued to
life’s tired billboards.
Cotton candy and poppy chins
we know what we're supposed to say
who we're supposed to be. We all pet them like poodles, else we will be
thought too feminist or brooding.
On worm farms in Idaho, one of them was said to have swallowed a curtain
rod. Someone must have told her it was edible, poor thing.
So, loose as linguini, the wayward worms slide across the frontier,
Trapped in the Barbed Wire
of expectation, numb to movement and
Where is Vickie and volleyball?
Where is the rafter where we sat that dusty afternoon
in the crumbling barn, making up songs?
In the Mold-Green Tent
warm as a mug,
ripe as a yellow leaf in a Chinese rain.
Moons of Jupiter pull and push in this dark cave
where leopards have loved.
The wheeze of waxed canvas begins our anilhilation.
Light slaps our faces as she yanks open the flap,
this paper doll girl with braces and baseball cap.
As usual, in terror, we spring apart,
squinting and ashamed
Her undulating pupils spit seedless grapes
hissing and pious
in the mid-summer haze. In justified fear, we stare in suspense
as her bones melt, her
disgust burning on its sharp wick.
Wheeling around in the damp oak leaves, she searches for someone to tell,
and with cruel delight, she squawks,
“They’re both girls!”
Those Patchouli Faces Appear Slowly
in the developer tray,
sliding gently from side to side. Papa and Whitney. They look serious and
true, with soft eyes like the messiah.
I wonder if they are as beautiful as I remember.
Darkroom-curiousness, float me away to our last cradle, where
bend upon bend, our bodies became clouds.
And Papa, your eyes strike like matches on a March morning.
Horse currier, scientist of loving, are you eating stir-fries with soy sauce
About the Creator
April is a writer and musician with music on most streaming platforms like Pandora and Spotify. She lives in Asheville NC and works as a copywriter, is a mother of 2 boys and is writing a mystery.