Between some branches,
a full moon stands,
poised to explode.
He hands me deep
blue conversation
from the childhood
softness of his
loving mouth.
I listen,
and in the dark
lodge of my body,
I want.
Don't think me
a carnivore.
It isn't meat I want.
It isn't blood
or improbable bones.
Though my mouth swells
with saliva at the thought
of his flesh.
He shows me
pincushion clouds,
pointing with his finger
at the dim thrusts of light
pressing their way through the darkness.
We stand in anklets of flowers
and all I want is him.
His voice at night.
His finger pointing,
connecting the dots of
destiny.
His voice again, swift as
a bountiful December wind.
His carousel of laughter
when he finds my eyes
not looking at any sky,
but, locked on his trousers,
soft as powder against his
skin.
Man, he stands beside me,
like some overripe fig
and everything he says
makes perfect sense.
I can't even trust the wind
but I trust him.
His voice as it rises
thick as raspberries
to bloody my ears.
The vast structure of
his fingers in their
pointing gesture,
long as an investigation,
and me, smelling of fruit.
Born woman. Go on.
It's farther than it seems,
but okay.
Credit card's been stolen.
Go on.
Above all, remember,
whenever you cry,
husbands roll their eyes,
and children worry.
Go on.
The father that was yours
gets killed by a lung disease.
He loved you, at least you think so.
Go on.
Time is an illusion.
Drink, smoke, do drugs.
Go on.
Drag your crippled bones
to work. Hate your boss
behind her back. Smile
to her face. Go on.
Eat. Don't eat. Get fat.
Get skinny. Go on.
Time fragments.
Space fractures.
Lives intersect.
Wombs bloom
with new life. Go on.
Wait.
Hold on.
Recent works of Lisa's can be found at 2River, Lily, Wicked Alice, Gold Dust Magazine, Sacramento Poetry, Art and Music Magazine, Wordsdance, VLQ and others. She is working on her third book of poetry.