"Copper Painted Jax"

Beneath wilted leaves and

spindly ochre octopus arms,

the chrysanthemums

wait

with

me

& mask

brick-traced broken windows of

pods lined up like miniature row-homes

with

flowerpot gardens on

splintered windowsills

Around me:

shreds of leaves & skin

swim

as a rivulet of rainwater

snakes & strangles

the baked

blackened

asphalt

& the iron alloy horizon

twists

& grips

the tarred tree necks

Pines, like chopsticks, they

angle away from me

pointing south. Home.

* * *

"Empty Emily"

Silence drips down yellow walls as

the candle's wick knots,

leans, shrinks, drowns, &

your fingers slip

inside me

The terracotta pot

wobbles

then catches itself on

the bedside table

Caramelized, your eyes

glow guilty

& the bleached white sheets form mounds

between us

I trace your skeleton, scant

streaked light

slivers and slides

down

your

thighs

Hands slog through thick air,

smoke & sweat

hang

Regret

My tongue licks the last

red-stained glass

to wash down your

stale crust-

ed consciousness

Outside

a passenger door creaks, slams

closed

& metal fragments shake

to the grass

* * *

"Equilibrium"

Hard-boiled fingers

reach out, slapdash &

grab wooly lime legs.

Dirt launches, roots

dangle, leaves recoil.

Our collective static

electrifies &

ends them. Abandoned

patchwork snowscape,

crystals form on

weeping ground. April

sun exhales, warms iced

mountains, pouring

waterfalls of milk.

* * *

"Platitudes"

Crumbly oaks leave

their leaves, drop their

colors where we

walk, we rip the

constellations,

we spill their fading

light. My hair on

your undressed chest,

freckled from hailstones

& winter nights in

random arms, we

stumble slowly lower,

my twisty knotted limbs, they

wrap around you as

your lips locate

my lunar orbs,

the underbelly

I protect, my

sour mouth

agape & full,

electric fireflies

flash through me to

dissolve me, time

dissolves in

time, no

urgent need to

flee

* * *

"Moonshine"

In the wet air we

let the blades cut footprints

before us

Your

curdled lies

hang, thick and swollen

I find release in each reluctant pause

of

vinegar breath

that

clouds

your

sheepish grin,

It wraps

like the St. Johns

around

two million frowning palms

And

your skin,

impenetrable to light,

deflects

my attempts

to paint your creases

with moonshine

Sandra Ketcham currently lives in Orlando where she works as a full-time freelance writer and editor. Her poetry is recently published or forthcoming in Bicycle Review, Rusty Truck, Calliope Nerve, Psychic Meatloaf, and others.