"The Sickler's Fortune," A Poetry Post

Sickle cell is
a
disease for
lovers.

It is unkind to
mothers who
wake in the
midnight hour,
hovering over their
screaming infants,
consoling through
full-flowing tears and
holding back
deep sobs of
regret and
remorse.

It is unfair to
siblings who
play second fiddle to
older or younger
sufferers,
the people who become the
banes of existence for their
mourning and mumbling
parents.

It is unyielding for
children who are
struggling
beneath the
weight of watching a
father or mother or
guardian writhe in pain and
subject him or herself to
mounds of too-powerful
painkillers.

But,
to a devoted wife or husband who can
follow the body's fevers and
locate the pulsating places of
stuck life,
the illness is a
sticking place where
hands become
instruments of
healing.

What a fortune a sickler has won if
he or she can find some
one to rub the
pain
away.

"Can You," A Poetry Post

Can you
love yourself again
pretty girl?

If I remove the
feeling of
disjointedness that
has resulted from this
wretched end of a
relationship,
can you remember your
brilliance?

If I hose you down in
memories of your
previous freedom,
will you shake off this
brokenness?
This bondage?

If I make you
put on your
stilettos and
curl your hair and
wear your favorite lip gloss to the
Latin club this weekend,
will you get your swivel back?

What will it take
to remind you that
you're worth loving?

What must I do to
wake you up into the
reality of your
power?

"A Few Thoughts on Death," A Poetry Post

Death is a
complicated piece of
existence.

In one way it
separates us from the
things we love most:
our friends,
our mothers,
our children,
our lost loves.

In another way it
brings us to a
place of ultimate peace and
relief.

We condemn it but we
need it.

We hate it but
must have it.

For life without a rest
is evil and
unbearable.

Life without a rest
is a killer.