Small Sorrows

This Weight Unnamed 

Until the man is finished

you cannot look upon his face,

Stringy blue eyes and sun stains spotting

his long and heavy skin,

the gravy dribbling down the clean and wrinkled shirt

he must have washed himself

now that he does all of the chores

around his little house.

Little Shoes 

Before this we are small, 

Our wet hands binding 

knots between thin air 

That threatens to snap between us

and crack the silence clean 

Spilling our secret sorrow across the linoleum floor

of this little waiting room

Behind sharp frosted glass

Beyond which men and women 

With children of their own 

Will tell us in an instant 

What we can and cannot have.

Waste

Until today, it will have been

a few long years since childhood 

that a woman soft and full 

has handed me an ice cream cone

and watched with gentle satisfaction

as I recognize the pastel taste 

of almond cake and weddings 

against my ringing teeth,

Which later in the bathroom mirror

I inspect

for stains of what ive done, and think

Next time, maybe next time.

September

Around the time that I was born,

The fireflies begin to sink in sleep,

And rest their wings against the grass

That soon will wrap its fingers 

around their brittle bodies. 

I do not want the darkness that surrounds them

But 

I don’t think that it’s fair

To put a thing into a jar 

Because i want to keep it close 

and watch it meet the glass.