Dead plant on the countertop

Her angst minces my onions,
carves into the skin
and out the flesh
and into a nice salad
to serve to company;
after church, of course.
Eat me! There’s no whittling today,
this is the county fair “devour your plate and fork and everything else, too” consumption contest.
He’s not a savory sap,
but I’ll remember that the next time I spend years on a commode
just thinking about Him–after dinner that day–it was great!

(Cry / cut / sever / fingers gripping me: the dead plant on the countertop.)

Don’t stop breathing

Don’t stop dancing–
falling down stairs
in a one story ranch house.
Don’t stop breathing child–
the violent blue will return
to skin, violently healing.
Broken is the mind and swollen
the fingers around a rock
fighting for focus away
from a mind, four times as old.
Cold are the roads away from any Father
that chases.

If I pick one, she will be torn

so many beautiful flowers
if I pick one, she will be torn,
no one will see her except in my vase
back home,
and I can’t let that happen.
a children’s store crayon
that I break between my fingers is
no longer my favorite color, god, everything
is white light, black pain–my life on a graying canvas.