Category Archives: Couplet

Monday Sonnet

The walk button chirps, “it’s cold,” as I beg
for the light to change (numb fingers, dancing legs).
“Duh,” I mutter, scurrying across, back
to the sunrise, and the wind. I’m off to twerk
my pain away, jazz jive my hips into
proper alignment, center core, & coup.
Cars stream by, swift & bright, dawn’s light bouncing
from their roofs in a drumming strobe, announcing
the fairness of taking turns. Meanwhile, trucks
line up, grumbling, trailing rigs like yellow ducks
or tralala. Beside the bus stop, a tree
sometimes harbors sandwiches in the “V”
of its lowest branches, but not today.
Then I spy wheat bread on the ground, squashed gray.


“When you see a Crime punished, you may be inwardly Pleased; but always show Pity to the Suffering Offender.” G. Washington

Not a little pregnant, but a lot, I mean really
huge, like someone glued a shelf to my belly

and then crammed in as much as it could hold
until I rocked unsteadily, big and bold.

There’s a reason why we protect pregnant women,
and it isn’t just because a new life is beginning,

with all that cuteness about to arrive, no, and not
just because they might lose the baby if hurt or shocked.

Factor those in, sure, but part of it has to be
that most moms can’t do it themselves. At least, not me,

I was pretty sure, as I clutched the fanny pack
that no longer fit around my hips and back

and slung it over one shoulder, on the same side
as the rib I’d cracked four months ago (with the pride

of being tough and macho, carrying paving stones),
the same side as the eye with the stye, and frail bones,

the sprained wrist. Not that the other side was better
with both feet swollen, too large for my cute leather

flats, so crammed into sneakers, and the wrist mirrored
with a sprained ankle I dragged behind me, awkward and tired,

lurching along, belly-first — hop-drag, hop-drag, hop-drag.
I was startled when a breeze went by, lifting my bag,

and trying to slide it past my crooked elbow.
It didn’t work, thank the Lord. I didn’t know

what we would do without that last twenty I’d hid
when my husband lost his job, just in case needed,

and the need was now. Then, when the breeze turned out
to be a wiry guy on a bike that slid past me, the lout

dismounting, and turning back, well, I don’t know
what happened. I guess I lost it, that cocky crow

strutting towards me, confident and easy in his stride,
my brain locked on, “You think I’m a target? You think I’D

MAKE A GOOD TARGET? Just because I’m pregnant and sick
and injured and tired?” The strangest words came past my lips:

“You want to fight for it?” He laughed, and said, “Sure,
I’ll fight you for it.” So, I kept hop-drag walking, fear

and anger blazing together, thinking, “a) this is
the stupidest thing I have ever done in this

life,” and “b) The only part of my body that works
is the one arm, so I get one strike. One, you jerk,

to take you down.” I held one image in my mind,
the heel of my hand smashing his face in and blind,

calculating the angle, force; feeling how I’d
push off my leg, throw weight behind the arm, and guide

it all right through his head. I stared at his eyes,
hoping this was quick. I stared, and stared at his eyes.

Then he stopped looking at mine. He glanced around,
noticed people gathering to watch the bout,

and evidently decided to revise his plan,
slowed down, turned around, went back to bike, and ran

(or the bike equivalent), peddling down the street,
turning once, to see if the crazy big-bellied bitch

was still after him. I was okay with that,
the shrinking ripples of his purple satin jacket.

Ice Woman (Unmentionables, 26)

Piebald, perhaps, or bicolor,
she’s a yinyang squalor scholar,

transparent and two-faced — well set:
One side crystal, the other wet.

She can’t tell. They’re the same inside.
But one eye glitters and stares wide

while the other just trickles,
one solitary drop, fickle

and silent. Her ears, not much use,
one frozen shut with cold abuse

sports a stunning sharp stabbing point,
while the other melts and anoints

her neck with a shrinking tickle.
Don’t shine sun on the icicle,

you’ll mess up her hair if it melts.
The long sleeves, high neck, hide her welts.

Pumice & polish the glacial
cheek, and carve the floating facial

grimace into something serene.
No rouge, no color, just a sheen

highlights the curve. Almost enough.
Hoarfrost gathers into a muff

beneath her chin, clasped with grey pearls,
snowy threads in spiraling whorls.

Oh, now she’s got it — calm and still,
a whisper to abate the chill:

“As I now lay me down to sleep,
I pray my dreaming eyes to weep.”