my fall girl

she fell on the sword

for us, first time, the

counter of Gimbels

when we ‘borrowed’ 

that pouty girl pink

when Mae wasn’t looking

untangling our vine

when the thorns had

outnumbered the roses

i heard she took sick

in the spring

my counterpart artist,

painting the trees i’d 

be poeming about

we harkened to sounds

of the colors, just in

our diversified dialects

but we laid down like leaves

drunk on the gospel of autumn

first night november.

half past tequila

the serrated edged blues

marinate with the triangular

greens. Rain beads the baritone

branch as it slides down the

cobblestones. Leaves puddle

like brush strokes on watercolors.

**half past tequila at Tommy’s..

somewhere in the Keys**

a good time to grow hips again

perhaps it’s time to grow

hips again..as this virus

gets real to the marrow.

Why starve as a 0 petite

with a closet of dresses,

when there’s no place 

to wear them these days

i’ve been thin, i’ve been

fat. Thin looks real sweet

but fat feeds the void as

i wait for that life i had taken

for granted, hoping the cows

will come home again.