Every Apple Has a Core Childhood I am a little girl again Eagerly awaiting With chin on table My eyes imploring my mother over Steam rising from bowls Burnt umber swirls of cinnamon Teasing patterns Atop her fresh pressed applesauce My eyes are wells Because on these lips I still taste The sweet treats of her homemade heart. These memories of a good girl Are long forgotten Except when he is with me Gently he pulls them out of me Encourages me to unravel The knot of my past. Pen to paper I try to do this justice Yet no words I can find Are perfect enough I want these words To be perfectly wrapped gifts Holding the emotion I put in to them I would make them presents At the baptism of a whole person My person Tears are the holy water In which I bless this being. Untitled Chlamydia is not a flower You know the sign at Your friendly neighboorhood County health facility. So on these walls Biege or mint or pink or mauve Supposedly calming There are these messages Perfectly gift wrapped In language that too Tries to be calming: Just think of flowers It will be o.k. I find this to be both Infuriating and reassuring It is a mockery of my Private life (pun intended) Flowers are a hopeful image of life. Looking around at the Other occupants In this waiting area of secrets I see reflected in the eyes around me Guilt, fear, and sheepishness I know that I too Am bound by these emotions. The best thing is to be Present in this I knew from day one Of my sexual explorations That Chlamydia is not a flower They teach it to us early These days Scarry to think I am just one more link In a long chain of germs That's sick. Untitled Doorway man Open and shut Calling me close He whispers thoughts Ideals Then wham! Maybe I get too close Comfort can only reside In a house full of trust I don't think He has much to offer me In my metaphorical mind I see a pyramid And I am pilgrim Standing in front Waiting for a sign Patient pilgrim Explores the outside Sees the cracks The imperfections Time worn I know that time Has over the course Of existence Left its marks on him It is almost too much I become overwhelmed Being near him Becomes an art A meditation I have to let go of Thought and expectation So I can just stay present He is teaching me How to listen I don't want to be Too close yet Maybe his blocked passage Is really a blessing? I fear the reality That I do not open to him fully It is far easier To push away something That is already pushing away Maybe though maybe I do not open this fully Because I don't like High risk investment And what's the purpose of Investing in a maybe.