Every Moment

The languor, the drive, the traffic, the parking,

the walking blocks to public beach access,

down past an atilt row of porta-potties,

dirt scruff shifting to sand under our feet;

the settling our stuff away from the water

to face the volleyballers, the being unable

to coax our puppy to nose at the tide,

the lounging until we get up and shake out

the sand, pack up, retrace our steps to the car;

the cars-at-a-crawl all the two-lane back,

the making a left across traffic to park, locking

the trunk, my purse, the keys, in it, miserable

at what I’d done, at everything, wanting

a fight, wanting, but unable, to curb myself.

My Animus Prods Me

When I wouldn’t speak

for myself, he spoke

but did he say anything like                            

what I wanted said?

Of course not.

I wanted nothing said

and spread out deck after

cyberspace deck, as if

with all the time

in the multiverse to ponder

who of the stratostars

abandoned whom

and what that j.peg’s

no-good robo-soul

of a boyfriend is up to

and why in light years . . .

He said: Your voice, your thumbprint.

Not a Clue

I’ve years of clues, and no clue

about the seductive voice in her head

telling her what, what not, to do.

Whether or not it’s true,

she said that voice was shed.

I’ve years of clues, and no clue—

still flinch at my every snafu.

Each up and down induces dread,

telling us what, what not, to do

ad infinitum. If only I knew

how not to try to pry her out of bed.

I’ve years of clues, and no clue.

Things revert to normal, as if on cue.

It know I’ve been misguided,

telling her what, what not, to do,

yet zoned-out on our bedspread

feel the nausea of it anew:

I’ve years of clues, and no clue

what, what not, to do.

Carol Moldaw
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