TagHeart

 “C’mon, let’s go,” Samantha Ray yawns. Beside her, Julia and Elle put away their dance shoes. “Jeez, I’m glad that’s over. Now we just have to make it through the recital…” Julia slams her shoes in her canvas bag. Her curly hair bounces. Elle sighs and rubs her muscles. “I’m gonna be soooo sore tomorrow. Ugh.” “You two are a bunch of wimps.” Samantha jumps up and pirouettes. “I could do this for another hour at least.” Elle and Julia flash each other a look and roll their eyes. Side by side, the trio of girls leave the dance academy and step

The Golden Eye glistens From within the yellow house, Through a hole in the Broken blind. A dull gold. A trembling Dark pupil reaches, Shrinks and stretches Across the brown-rimmed Eye. Children trample by. The Eye quivers. A boom, boom, boom, Bark! Across the road the children scamper, And the Eye stills. It watches and waits- Writhing with excitement.

You were the Blind Dog. The Blind Dog with no collar. Meek and unspoiled. Fur tangled. Burs woven in. Crusted with frothy mud You dipped Your head towards the ground and bowed before Him. He held the leash. A leash You could not see. The sound of his voice tickled Your ears to life and pulled You closer. He cooed from across the street. He called Your name and echoed words of home. You galloped towards Him. Twitching with eagerness and vibrating with tension, You flew across the street. Honks of warning bellowed in Your ears, but still You ran. Ran to Him. An instant of flurried confusion, and a rush of hard heat. You

They had both fallen. She fell halfway before catching herself. Uncertain, she teetered backwards. He crashed. His head twanged after hitting the ground. But it was happy pain. His stomach buoyant with air; Shining, blunt-ended joy. It struck him. And he looked up, grinning. Only to see that she was standing. Biting her lip and folding her arms, she told him. She tore him. She twisted his chest into knarred boughs. Fire rang in his nerves. He was dazzled. The lines on his face frozen. A joke? No, not a joke. She half-smiled. Sorry. Her eyes drifted away. He jerked towards her, But his joints were solid in their sockets. Time dissolved. T

She walks into the sandwich shop. The door clicks and  beeps open. The tile floor a watching spreadsheet. Her children, red-headed and flat faced dance at her feet like fired copper. They climb her checkered shirt sleeve. No, you listen; she spills  across the sandwich counter, One hand pressed hard  against the silk metal counter, The other meshed against the strap of her purse. An amber hair floats across the edge  of her   cheek. Never— (she says)—  Never marry Unless— Unless you know  Know how…   how he… How he handles his money. The children rumble  and squeak. They t

Snapping, snarling dogs with a growl in their throats. The dogs rise. With long strides they chase her down iron stairs. Her bony figure streaks through tombs. The skin on her legs stretches- elastic- as she runs. She sprints bluntly and rides the hot air beneath her feet. Strands of her hair are speckled with cranberry blood. The dogs bound hot on the chase. Their muzzles stiff with red mud. The wire-hairs on their backs rise in spikes. They prance on the pads of their thorned feet. She darts across rooms of hopeless flight. They follow and slink between rows of borrowed pride. Between aisles of attempted triumph. She cracks and sp

We laid sod one November day at the house we never seemed to finish. A block of time set aside for us in the chill air. The sun heating my shivering frame. The earth shuffling beneath my sneakers; I carried sod. My fingers gripping a square-shaped cut of sod. Dusty green. The mats of earthy grass brushing my jeans. The dirt streaking the blue material. We plopped pieces down. Side by side, row by row we placed the sod. A patchwork quilt to decorate the bed of earth. I squatted, balancing on my toes. Back bent over sod. Pinching the sides together with my fingertips. Patting it down with the heel of my hand. My eyes scrunching in t

     The painting is a mess. Black and cream combine. The empty space. The black hole. Bits of reddish clay-colored paint. The pain. Yellow-gold for the few good moments, for the moments of hope. When I stand back, the moments of hope dissolve. The meaning becomes one. “Turmoil,” the painting says. “Love,” it whispers.     On second thought, it is much more. Sharp lines of pain. Partially hidden by paint. A bandage. Random squiggles. Our inspiration. The brush strokes go different ways. Colors intercede and overlap one another. Confusion. The gold frame is speckled with dark spots of neglect. Who forgot you?     You