Life taught her well –

hide beneath pretty

packaging, paint sleeves

pink like brittle


fingernails to ward

off the curious

and offer a semblance

of heart without


engagement. Scars

mean band-aids,

amateurish wrappings

to disguise the terror


of being known, the

risk of offering her

self and finding that

she is not enough.

To Deliver the Wind

Only one layer of skin

stands between her and destitution.

Having risked and lost,

over and over,

cyclical impotence,

can she proffer seed

to one whose will could crush the offering?

Heart bleeds sterility,

tosses back her love


 womb withers and writhes in its laborious pursuit

and gives birth to stillborn hopes.

All she wanted was to be loved in return –

but contractions breed ignorance,

and impregnation defies dreams.

Arms remain empty,

gestation begets ripening rage.

Hers was impotent implantation;

her love will only deliver

the wind…