My husband’s a cheat

Blame it on my muffin top and fat ass

Blame it on my low self-esteem

Blame it on our salty encounters

At one in the morning.

Blame it on the shit sex

Blame it on stale takeaways

Blame it on that time you made dinner

And I didn’t say thank you.

Blame it on our “conversations”

Blame it on our “chemistry”

Blame it on my horoscopes,

And your rock and roll posters

Blame it on fucked up childhoods.

Blame it on old age

Blame it on the promise of death

And the prospect of living with you.


The Summer Ghost

In the garden

I walk with not a trace

Of sadness.

The touch of brambles is enough.


To make my skin itch?

An understatement.

Worms fade like coffee-stained sunbeams

In the garden.


The warmth consumes everything, yet

Feels nothing.

By the callas a pair of dead eyes follow me

In the garden.


I gaze at dirty crystals dancing on leaves and then

A figure.

Moving above my chilled fingers, smelly flesh dissolving

In the garden.


We linger for a while,

Just staring.

As green turns to red.