It was early July
and rain was spotting the
ground outside.
My mother left to go say her
prayers for an hour
while I stayed home,
looked at photos,
awaited her presence
along with warm bagels.
I've been wiped out on
this bed, exhausted by
our tangled communications
over the phone, and only that.
It has been seven months
since I've seen you last.
Morning storms are so brooding;
lightning strikes trees like
a man strikes his wife
and the thunder is loud
like our bickering.
My eyes ache for your image
and your love
but you always take it back.
Your words are fueled by
drunken nerves
and anger that I have activated.
Although the mood of the morning
is dreary and boring,
there is no reason to be tense.
Let's trade our words, let our
sentences dance