Her heart beats in Morse Code,

an arrhythmia that alarms doctors,

elates lovers,

and dispatches the secrets of love.

 

An arrhythmia that alarms doctors

requires a cardiac specialist

and dispatches the secrets of love

into acute arrest,

 

requires a cardiac specialist

with skilled fingers

who moonlights as a cryptologist

capable of resuscitation.

 

With skilled fingers,

he massages code into language

capable of resuscitation

at the moment of despair.

 

With skilled fingers,

elates lovers

capable of resuscitation…

her heart beats in Morse Code.

 

Copyright 2017

He searches his heart

for the white flag of surrender,

offers it to her

with a glass of shiraz.

 

They had warred with each other

over boundaries and principles,

sending forth spies,

taking no prisoners.

 

Both remain

the last ones standing,

she having the advantage

in the art of disarmament.

 

Copyright 2017

He always wrapped his lies in gilded paper,

tied them off in bows of ornate excuses,

added gift tags written

in the disappearing ink of promise.

 

Now here he stands before her,

holding bare truth in cupped hands,

offering her the unkempt bit of disaster

that was the one true gift

he could actually offer.

 

Copyright 2017

He replaces the guitar strings

with moments of forgiveness

so that when his fingertips

opt for minor chords,

the air surrounds him

with sighs of contrition.

 

Copyright 2017

 

 

He inhales helium from the red balloon,

the girdle of gas cinching his vocal chords,

strangling his bass two octaves higher.

 

His laugh becomes reminiscent

of a vintage cartoon character,

boiled in vermouth,

trapped in the mountains of Tibet.

 

He summons forth chuckles,

maniacal laughter,

exhales them back into the red latex sphere.

 

Soon he has a bouquet

of twenty-three balloons,

all of them red,

each filled with pleasure.

 

Riding his bicycle

to the barbed-wire barricade,

he floats them all free

over a nation held hostage.

 

Bullets assassinate all the balloons

as if they were hearts

meant to be lost.

 

He smiles to himself

as he bicycles away.

Laughter rains down for weeks

bringing strange peace.

 

Copyright 2017

He wanted to worship her,

not destroy their lives.

 

The line of separation

was as thing

as a liar’s promise.

 

He had precariously balanced

along the edge

for years,

hiding a secret desire

to stumble and plummet.

 

One day,

he closed his eyes,

executed a lover’s dismount,

giving no thought at all

as to whether

he could stick the landing.

 

Copyright 2017

He speaks the lost language

of Tierra del Fuego,

wearts t-shirts woven

from the sweet dreams

of sinners.

 

There is power to his stride,

he harbors dynamite

in his muscles,

grace to his step

as the fuse offers salvation.

 

He rinses his mouth

with unabashed flirtation,

coating each spoken word

with appealing inuendo.

 

Men want to be him.

Women want to have him.

But he is a warrior of conquest,

collecting hearts like scalps

in a box under the bed.

 

Copyright 2017