Fallout (Crank 3)

I could crush her.

Wonder how many small

things of beauty—flowers,

seashells, dragonflies—

have met such a demise.

Wonder how much fragile

love has collapsed

beneath the weight of confession.

ENOUGH ALREADY

One too many lit classes,

I guess. A little too much poetry,

dredged up at all the wrong times.

Thanks so much for that, Mom.

You’ve got a poet’s soul, she told

me once. And an old soul at that.

Whatever that means. I don’t feel

so old, for the most part. I do like

words, but this is not the time

for them, nor is it the time for

confessions. There is invitation

in Nikki’s eyes. It’s time for that.

THE WOOD

In her room is cherry—deep

reddish brown. Elegant.

The sheets on her bed are black

satin. Slick beneath desire-

dampened skin. Her hair is like

a sunburst against the onyx-

colored pillowcase. Its perfume

spices the air with ginger