SUNDAY ON TUESDAY

Damn dad!  You died right after
I visited you in the hospital
Why didn’t you just do it
while I was there?

Maybe you heard bypass surgery
say you were seventy-three years tired,
but I wanted you to muster fight for future
We had catching up to do

Casket-wise, your PCP pickled corpse lay waxed,
prune faced, darker than black spilled on pink marble
Nylon gloves made your stubborn hands noble
Someone even had the nerve to say you looked good

Getting ready for your funeral,
I combed my shoes
Polished my hair laces
Blunted buff and scuffed
shine on barefooted soles

I ran to Jesus
Ironed my Bible
Read aloud my dress
Rose on knees to pray for us
as if I was going somewhere with you

Somewhere brand new
with antique doors
Somewhere unique
with usual windows
You promised to take me somewhere

I am akin to the woman who wore
your schemes on the hems of her aprons
You plucked and scratched her womb
with games like skelly tops on street tar
Unlike her, your masculine did not disgust me
Hell, my female ego skeletons your dust

Okay, maybe you did die at the right time
Too bad you battled life with the wrong battery pack
I guess you had sagging memories too
Damn dad!  I just wish my kiss was at the hospital
holding your hand, so I can stop missing you

WET

He knows water fills wells of women
Charming women outsmarted by tease
Women tired of being
Women
Grown children, pretending
He knows water fills wells of women
Prideful women who lay priority down
At his feet
King
Women swim for sire’s first touch
He knows water fills wells of women
Sinnin’ women too involved to salvage
He knows women want to be beautiful
They wear rocks and fire for make up
Women treasure his liquid clouds
So they stay
Immersed in habitual currents
Too captivated in smoke
To stroke above wells

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