the uninvited

at times such
as this, any old guest
will do: dahlia stalks
with dinner-plate heads

bob odd like Alices
in happenstance land

or the litigants uninvited
to tea who whine and
demand but never
think to simply leave.

the Ugliness of Veronique Rough

Pulled from a Carmelite trance,
my tongue flaps its confession
of irrefutable and bitter
ugliness—the kind
that pales to its own ghost note.

zone bleue

fashion spits on style,
which amuses the French

and Siberian women
understand nothing

yet are the loveliest by dint
of skin and leg and golden glint.

My screen fried
today; it simply colourized
and died, and I recalled

the sparkling toddler shoe
left on display four doors

down I yearned
to scoop it up, claim its milky occupant

but

one must not take what one
does not own,
and my camera said, "no, widowed woman, kindly let
it go."

lost

I lost a post about
loss and shoes, sparkling ones
ditched on the curb side.

I lost a monitor; it colourized
then fried. I lost

four daughters: a toddler

Sophia who was not quite replaced
by Lysandre, Natasha, Sarah.

These black-haired girls
enchant my nordic blonde eyes.

I snowshoe over Siberian taiga.
My "why" is the only endearing
quality, yet I toss
Rapunzel out of her tower,
insisting her biography
is my  rightful flower.