A frown;
deep-set into your over-ripened
face, it leaves a stubborn trace
of frustrated resentment--
bitter, just how you describe (I'd poured my heart--
that lemon pie I made you. and the flour out onto the kitchen
counter knowing you'd be pleased
As do your eyes; the lies I didn't get it from the store;
they've carried hold them down-- Noon, you said, was too late
if only you'd pluck them off for birthday surprises.)
the ground long enough to find
a fractal of visions, a focal
point in looking at me.
I keep trying to meet
your gaze, but you're unfazed;
the organic taste of tears, and fears
unshared, because your tongue refuses to be
plucked off your orange-peel cheek.
You turn away
a reminder;
I see past you now.
Like my memories,
your forehead wrinkles,
defining the line
between you and I.













Critiques
Thank you for your Critique
You are not logged in.