Samsara on a Silver Chain

the path she walks runs blood red rain soul deep
pouring hot copper taste over the smooth
pale black marble stones of such young blind lust
barefoot she treads into oblivion
and pants shallow wet breath and empty sighs
he licks away the crimson streaks of high
and levels the shadowed laced eyes of the
devil on hers
a stone swells desert dry in her gentle
white splotched throat and a shiver runs down on
spider tracks and imagined dreams of love
the breathless heat and garnet panting are
suddenly overwhelming, undertaking
as the world spins black in her empty eyes
and the light drains from the air all around
to puddle ashen rain and hollow stains
on dirty tile

The List

His walls were lined with gifts from patients that
had passed – a painted mug that
read “catch a big one,” with a purple fish
along the side; a hand-sewn
doll that had blood-red pigtails made of yarn
and wore a dress made from the
maker’s hospital gown.
He said I had, at best, a few more years
before the cancer worked its
way past my breasts and into other organs.
He started listing drugs and
procedures, but my only thoughts were on
my list and items from it
that would have to go un-done.

I wrote the list before my diagnosis,
an exercise to help me
find some direction in my life, some kind
of order. Sitting in this
bar I think back – I wrote the list in that
left corner of the room, a
lit cigarette between my lips and beer
that I had not paid for, that
was always “on the house.” The bartender,
Ritchie, was always sweet to me.
I wonder if he’ll miss me when I’m gone,
I wonder if he'd notice.