The Odds Catching Up

"Our loves are nothing," her voice flitting dangerously high
I nod, and agree
and what I had kept long hidden
twists, sharp, deep in the belly
I reach for the door handle
gagging for air
slipping from the car
my legs disobedient
crumpling to asphalt
and the taste of blood and broken teeth barely occurs to me

I try to whisper

"This was long overdue"

The Dark Hand in the Garden

There is now,
     a dark hand in the garden
chewing sky and earth
to fallow field.

What will we eat, come summer
     if spring's bounty lies churned into loam?

What, then, in winter,
after we have gnawed down the paltry bones of famine?


What fertile soil the next season will bring,
sown with the turned-in crop of the last
and the gift of our bodies
and dust and ash.