Those Things I Can’t Tell Myself (a Poem for Day Thirteen of PAD)

The prompt for day thirteen is confession.

I'm Just a Brick Wall Now

Those Things I Can’t Tell Myself

I confess. I sometimes visit 

the brick entryway
of our consummation
where hardness became
soft, where grief wrapped
her bony fingers around
your guarantees, where I found
myself, but lost you,
one letter at a time.

*****

The Seamstress and Her Tailor (a Poem for Day Twelve of PAD)

The prompt for day twelve is to write a damage poem. My poem is below.

You're Handy with a Needle

The Seamstress and Her Tailor

My scissor collection—

once hanging innocently
on the wall above where
we stitched our tears—
is now scattered throughout
this old house full
of neglected remnants.
My favorite pair now rests
carefully inside a utility
drawer like an ancient
épée on display for
future textile patrons,
those that, like you, long
to touch, but deny
their impulses.
You threaded
all my spools.
You’re hazardous
to my materials now. 

*****

The Summer That Never Ended (a Poem for Day Eleven of PAD)

The prompt for day eleven is to write a seasonal poem. 

Parched September

The Summer That Never Ended

Los Angeles was once an earth

angel, but new research says
California is over.
Summertime is now twelve months
a year. One drop less a day has changed
everything—Joshua has grown
parched, no wet
for at least two state lines
away and grapes that shrank in the dry
cycle are raisins on the vine.
Hillsides are cracked
like over-boiled eggs, swimming
pools have become skate
parks, and we all want the wet shine
of terracotta stains to quench our lips,
bring back fall, winter, and spring,
while politicians hunt for a magical
plan to smooth it all away. 

*****