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Truth by MARYANN HAZEN-STEARNS

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MARYANN HAZEN-STEARNS Truth The truth is I want to feel my teeth buried to gums in your hand. I want to smash anything glass, to feel shards of porcelain angels zing past my cheek, fracture into slivers under crunching shoes. The truth is I want to light your hair on fire, watch your eyes howl in fright. I want you to be so sorry, so sorry, so sorry. The truth is fierce as the whoosh of a baseball bat with your knees in my line of sight. I want to hear the crunch of bone, the slick wetness of raw-on-raw, your trembling mouth work the words no, no, no, no … The truth is I'm afraid I've tripped the switch fantastic from don't-go-over-red-rover to go-go-green-jeans and you're the one I pick. Copyright 2006, MARYANN HAZEN-STEARNS, all rights retained

poetryREPAIRshop v06.09:108

Haven't You, Haven't You by 108POETQ2

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LYN LIFSHIN Haven't You, Haven't You even if you've no interest in another man suddenly noticed in one week, three or four who aren't bad on TV? Between hours at my desk, or ballet, I'm not likely to find many hunks but when it's been straight rain 17 days, haven't you started dreaming of a walk under cherry petals with someone new? Someone who wouldn't yell at you or put his hands over his ears when you as a question? Shit, I'm not easily hurt, not easily lured but when each morning is a minefield and I field I ought to tape my mouth with adhesive, say no thing that might lead to some fight. I want the murky days over, this gray darken- ing to pewter to go and I'm making a list of those, at least in dreams who might help me get out of this Copyright 2006, 108POETQ2, all rights retained

poetryrepairSHOP v06.09:108

Impedimenta by MARYANN HAZEN-STEARNS

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MARYANN HAZEN-STEARNS Impedimenta There is nothing left to feel. His genitalia have dried. Blown from the nest overnight. A lapse of impetus, nothing left to defend yet there it is. Spit and jizz propaganda, useless erotic pantomime. His hunger swells but the dead thing remains hollow; impassive. Magnified by angry realization, frustration sputters in the tender vernacular of manhood; it's her fault the slut she's a pig a whore take a fist to her jaw still there's nothing left to feel. His genitalia have died. Copyright 2006, MARYANN HAZEN-STEARNS, all rights retained

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