She’s on the fix: repairing hems, cleaning the oven, puttying cracks, organizing drawers, straightening picture frames with no idea of how to fix a cracked heart. She needs a breaking of old habits —a lesson on letting be, leaving her broken things to heal themselves.
Wish upon that falling star and put a four leaf clover in your button hole. Carve our initials into soap and rub them into us. Light a candle and chant a spell, because I want, because I’ve got to have magic.
An Open Letter to the N.Y. Times Regarding Their Sunday Crossword
Your circular riddle’s an impossible pill to swallow. Your blanks I struggle to fill. The crux of the matter? I never know just how to harvest the seeds that you sow. I find your clues exceedingly queer. Your genius outreaches my talent, I fear.
Image by Daniels Joffe on Unsplash, used with permission
King Neptune’s Joust
Who seeks to best the ocean’s roar is just a fool, and no more— delusional right to his core. The protection of the knights of yore— that plaited metal that they wore— was but a many-chambered door that led them to the ocean’s floor.
Please don’t snap your bones at me. I cringe, I plug my ears, I plea. If you must make noise with body parts, please stick to burping, coughs or farts. Since popping sounds tend to astound me, Do not crack knuckles when around me!
I do not like that brittle sound,
so please don’t crack your bones around!
Image by JJ Jordan on Unsplash. Used with permission.
Grossed Out by Liver
Have you ever seen the quiver of a plate of raw red liver? Shake it and you’ll see it shiver. Blood runs right out and forms a river. If mom cooks it, I won’t forgive her. I will not eat a gol darn sliver!!
For Whimsygismo’s dVerse Quadrille (exactly 44 words) prompt of Quiver. Phew!!!