#Micropoetry Monday: Love Story

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He worked a dirty job,
she worked in sterility,
but his virility
overcame her infertility.

He married her for her beauty,
she married him for money,
but when he became handsome,
& she became rich,
they were happier with themselves.

To marry in the temple
would be to leave her father & mother
& cleave unto the faith of her husband.
She chose not the latter,
but the former,
& in doing so,
she was able to cleave unto the man
whose faith mirrored hers.

She grew up,
always wanted,
but never needed;
he matured,
always needed,
but never wanted.

She’d loved them both, & when one had died,
the other had become greater in her mind,
for he had died at the height of his perfection–
the peak of his valor–
so that no man in life could ever overcome
the shadow of his death.

#Micropoetry Mondays: Childhood Memories

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She’d fallen in love with Amy’s childhood,
& so she shared the memories as if they were her own,
& in so doing, she became what Amy might have been.

The stories they told, no one believed,
because what they saw through their limited prisms,
they could explain in the way only children can—
in innocence, the guilt of the adults around them.

Every year, her parents had Photoshopped
an age-progressed picture of her abducted brother,
so that when she crossed his path many years hence,
she knew, with startling clarity,
the man he had become,
the man who would take her life.

She learned “once upon a time”
& “happily ever after” from stories,
& everything in between from the lives
she lived through those stories.

Mr. Bob had been her imaginary friend.
When she came upon the grown-up version of him,
she knew he’d been very real to her mother.

#Micropoetry Monday: Love Comes Darkly

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Their romance was a one-act play,
their marriage,
a Shakespearean tragedy in 5 acts.
The honeymoon was over before it began,
but the potential of the life she carried
held it all together till the final scene.

He married her for her beauty,
she married him for money,
but when he became handsome,
& she became rich,
they were happier with themselves.

They loved one another
to the exclusion of all others;
their compassion for the guilty
diminished what the innocent
could have used.

He was unique & handsomely-made–
without blemish;
she was scarlet with sin,
with skin as white as snow,
yet it was her life that made the greater sacrifice.

She had been raised to put her marriage first,
& in so doing,
she had put herself second.
Her children could never imagine a Father’s love,
having never seen it in their own.

#Micropoetry Monday: Love Story

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She went to Utah, to seek her fortune in a husband,
but found misfortune that would keep her single
for the man who would someday understand her.

Divorce lawyer by day,
matchmaker by night,
Gwyneth Kate found her mate
in a client,
her client in a mate.

She was a movie star,
he was a stage actor,
Her legacy survived through celluloid,
his, through the cells
that made up his son.

Sir Evan was a quiet man who grew beauty,
capturing it with his camera.
His soft-spoken ways spoke to Moira Ma’am,
a white lily who grew in his heart–
a lily he made dewy.

She’d loved a 0,
a 10 had loved her,
but because the 0 had come first,
she lost The One.

#Micropoetry Monday: Weapons, & Things that are Hard

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The rock was used to kill,
the paper, to destroy a reputation,
the scissors, to maim—
all were equal as weapons.
All can kill the spirit,
but the rock alone,
the unrepentant soul.

She was a ruin—
jagged-toothed &
draped in moss,
till the rock collectors came,
& she was made better
than the sum of her parts.

Water was her weapon—
boiling water pouring on the body,
icicle piercing the heart,
saltwater filling the lungs—
no fingerprints left,
DNA washed away.

His affection for Lila #9’s
soft curves was hard.
She fulfilled his every need,
yet did not get pregnant.
He loved her like a real woman,
until she conspired with the one
to whom she sold his sperm.

*In John Updike’s story, “A&P” (http://www.tiger-town.com/whatnot/updike/), he does something unusual:  He implements a long adjective using hyphens, describing a grocery aisle.  My ENC1102 professor had us come up with our own; the weapons in the “Clue” board game came to mind.

Revolver-and-rope-hammer-wrench-screwdriver-pipe-shovel-dagger-candlestick-trophy-skillets-hatchet-blowtorch-and-chainsaw-store.

#Micropoetry Monday: Reconstruction

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He wouldn’t have loved her whole,
but when he became half a man,
he loved her wholly.

She was 30 when she began her ministry—
of life after miscarriage & divorce with
18 undocumented years “about her mother’s business”—
finding herself resurrected
through her student disciples.

She bicycled and upcycled,
turning garbage into something green.
Her collar had gone from blue,
to white,
to green,
but it was when she fell back to blue,
she wanted much,
but wasted not.

The house was smaller than she remembered,
shabbier over time,
& she sought to bring it back from the grave
with her feelings that were as true as
her false memories.

An accident had taken her beauty,
& she learned to use her brain
to get it back.

#Micropoetry Monday: Perfect Sense

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She beaded in Braille.
Her body language needed no translator,
her facial expressions expressive,
her tone not deaf.

Negative space: the absence of color,
the breaks in paragraphs that ease the eyes,
the hue that brightens only to show more that is not.
It is white.

The children entered the magical garden,
with its sacred spaces
& secret places.
It was where they went to nurture,
in nature,
the senses that glowing screens could not
provide.

He tasted the nourishment of her melons,
she smelled the spice that was his essence,
he touched the deepest part of her lily,
she heard the words drawn from her depths,
& blindly, they found the sacred sensual.

She took inspiration from their expiration,
internalizing their words,
externalizing the actions those words provoked.