Spilt Milk

Spilt Milk

I was always sure
hers would be the next call
delayed with some excuse
errands, car trouble,
dead phone.

I was always hers
until that last call,
the one that meant no more
calls were coming,
the one that ripped
the bowl of cereal
from my hands
and slammed it
to the laminated floor,
cornflakes floating
like life rafts
on the spreading sea of milk,
blueberry islands
and porcelain-piece
prominences projecting
from whiteness
as it made its way
under the refrigerator.

I sank down and sat
right in it
my slippered feet sliding
a bit as I splotched down.
The wave of milk rolled
blueberry islands in arcs
as the drips landed
clear salt water
homogenizing quickly
as it rippled into spilt milk.

New Smell

New Smell

Eight or ten times
I looked over my shoulder
at emptiness glinting
back at me,
a teasing cacophony
of almost-mirrors,
the bottles dancing
reflections
across their curvatures
an amplification of motion
when a tissue flutters
a hundred-fold
in the prismatic grasp
of glass.

Eight or ten times
I realized the scent
triggering my turn
did not herald the approach
of a new conquerer
or concubine,
but rather a small change
in identity,
for adjustment is slow
where scent is concerned;
the nose is last to let go.
Long after faces fade,
lilac will conjure tears
in the crow's-foot crevices
as the sun-filled yard
hedged with purple
yields to a curtained,
perfumed interior
on the day of the last
"I love you."

The silent sense sliding
up the nostril to the brain
slinking from fold to fleshy fold
and striking unexpected
to summon images,
sights forgotten
by all but the nose.
So when I glance
that eighth or tenth time
expecting someone
other than me
it's only because I'm unused
to this scent that isn't mine.

Empty Chocolate Box

Empty Chocolate Box

If life is like a box of chocolates
I can only assume it's meant to be devoured
rapidly, and wholeheartedly,
the pretty gold foil of childhood eagerly discarded
to get to the good stuff.
And when the first layer of goodness
is gone
you realize all too suddenly
you only have half left
and even though it's true
there's some marzipan in your past
and in your future,
waiting to take you by surprise
with its clash of soapy texture
and a hint of bitterness.
You know it's going to be worth it
when you get to the richness of the truffles.
But those are for another time;
right now you're full of it all
and on the brink of sickness,
so you try to put back the layer of gold
even though it doesn't sit quite straight
and rattles around on top
of a cheap and empty plastic tray.

Obstacle

Obstacle

There was an impassible
obstacle
back there
somewhere.

I guess when it was labeled
insurmountable
they weren't banking
on me bridging the gap
between stone walls
with my body
and bending myself
over boulders.

I'd have reached back
to bring you out
of the dark, damp
confines
where cool walls shade
moisture and moss
from the sizzle of the sun,

but you're not here.
Nobody is,
since when I overcame
the indomitable
I did it alone.

So now this place
I've attained,
by wedging my body,
working slowly upward,
this place
with its royal rock,
this place
spread out and shining,
belongs to nobody
but me.

And back there,
somewhere,
is a boulder
assuring my solitude,
keeping you
in the sunless
slot,
a slit in the ground
I step over
while exploring
the vastness
just an impossible leap
above.

Treading Carefully

Treading Carefully

Capped with crispness,
the thin crust ripples
when pressed,
and bubbles skirt along
the icy underside.
Grass stems poke through,
straws letting in air,
weak points
radiating cracks,
as my foot forces
water out around the edges.

One foot breaks through,
a cold rush.
Nothing that delicate
can hold
under constant pressure
and water wells up
its release a relief
like a secret you knew
you couldn't keep.