The Impending Doom of I Do

I, alone, was once the beholder
whose eye determined worth.
I would enter the room hips first.
Hands free at my sides. Shoulders
back. Chin up.
Alone.

I traded that loneliness to live
within the circle of his appraisal.

Now, my palms flatten against closing doors
to dampen the sound of my arrival,
to stretch the seconds between fear

[the weight of his hand in mine
is a metaphor for don't embarrass me]
and the finality of doors, once shut,
remaining so forever.

Love Letter

If you hold me up - spread
and flatten my body of text
against a lighted window,

the dull shape of my heart
will show through paper skin.

Ice Storm

We knew this storm was coming,
knew we would be powerless,
but our roots remain interred.

Our naked limbs still reach
for one another

til the snow-hushed moment splinters.

Our bending, outstretched arms
begin to groan - then crack;

our limbs fall to our sides.