The doctor says phantom heartaches aren’t chronic.
“Distance should stop the bleeding. Take ½ a Time pill before the moon remembers she will never kiss the sun.”

Distance hasn’t worked,
Time tumored around thoughts of your tongue touching my mind,
my wounds are infected by loneliness, oozing memories…
and the throbbing is as maddening as the night you ripped happiness
out of loins that have never learned not to want you.

The doctor prescribed a new heart.
He pushed it into the nothingness you left behind,
tearing through breast and bones that still refuse to stop being yours.

“Perfect fit.”

“I feel nothing.”

“You won’t die from not feeling.”

“Neither will I live unfelt,” I told him, my chest holed anew.


Eblis Images is out of this world, don’t you think?


– for the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.

To Warm Me

She is a monster waiting to swallow the world. Really. Look at her (maw at the ready, lips as sharp as blades) waiting to bloom into something bright and beautiful that promises to take your breath away. Fine, so she will keep you from breathing by being all stunning and stuff, but your brain will still starve for air… um, I might’ve taken this metaphor a bit too far *cough*.
Anyhoo, from this angle, doesn’t my amaryllis look like a glorious monster about to swallow something whole? At first, I wondered if she was working with Cthulhu, but… no tentacles. So, she’s probably a free (freaky) agent.

Yes, my Wicked Luvs, you are correct. This is how my plants and I survive winter (and those long…….. periods between recovering/healing and more medical procedures to come—we birth tales, giggle and cackle at wondrous (if silly) things. All right, I tell the tales. But my plants are great listeners.

to warm me and mine,
I (will) spring stories
out of snow in March

in my urban woods,
limbs stiff but spread wide, I wait
for the kiss of spring