The Fifth Dinner Guest

An unfolding napkin
gently collapsing
into the supporting role
of the evening.

A graceful artifice
faintly subsiding
into the pull and tuck
of the gathering.

The corner of the mouth
softly acquiescing
to the light touch
of fate.

Bones Remembered

(Murat’s clouds reminded me of this poem I’ve been fiddling with for a while. The first line may seem familiar. I’m still not convinced it’s complete, but this is the latest iteration.)



Under the bones of the sky
she splinters into inadequate words.

Her sun-baked terracotta heart
only beats when its broken,
only bleeds when it rains,
only skips when she doesn’t
hold it tightly in her hands.

She draws dots and calls them stars,
she draws zigzags and calls them tears,
she draws swirls and calls them life.
The dust changes the color
of the quickly drying paint.

The wind smoothes her edges
and the bones drift away.