Discretionary Love

The shadows come crawling, black-lipped and brine-soaked, like grief rolling in from the sea – our backs turned to the salt, the ache, the waterfront

Yesterday you kissed me like you knew your number was up, like you were about to be drafted. You kissed me like my kids were

My friends were right from day one: I was a pot boiled over and my bubble-love overflowed onto everyone and everything but you. We were

We’re in the drive-thru with the windows open on a hot summer day, And she’s found a pair of scissors to cut the sleeves off

When the sun leaves the sky and begins to rot. The deep blue begins to bruise like the flesh of a plum. A petunia. A

drinking blueberry kombucha, feet up on the dash with my wool socks bunched around the ankles like a stubby trunked tree reflecting in the windshield

fingertips brush the nape of your neck but the ghost of kiss-swollen lips linger. they linger in the way the sun rises, through skies of

more than the heart it’s the streams of marrow leaking through withered bones true love slips into my ears it is a death rattle soft,

and scream hope into my mouth.  Blood.                                Salt.     

1 The morning sun accentuates the prayer plant’s veins. It’s already hot when I think of getting out of bed. Down the hall the children’s

I knew your sadness before I knew your name. I saw it in your eyes, like anchors in those blue oceans that pierced my soul.