Rearview Mirror

The stoplight wasn’t nearly long enough;
I only caught a glimpse in the rearview.
Not enough time to drink in his image –
left thirsty, only a sip of blue eyes
(were they blue beyond my imagining?)

No cigarette dangled from crimson lips
– which only made me want to taste them more.
With no idea of height, just a hint
of stature by his casual posture
leaning against window and steering wheel.

Red turned green – envy my destination
as he disappeared around the corner.
I just passed, too shy to reverse my course.
He will remain in my rearview mirror.



Under the Winter Moon

Circled by clouds, full moon lights the quiet –
I am reminded of fingers entwined
and kisses once shared beneath such a moon
one breath – your exhale, became my inhale.

Did we ever recline car seats and stare
up at the stars? Neck across the gear shift?
No, ours wasn’t backseat teenage groping
the kind I never had when I was young.
We made love, explored passion together,
allowed adult desire to blossom.

Now in this room alone, I remember
the warmth of your hands as you caressed me,
the taste of your breath, your lips as we kissed…
and wish I could push forward to forget.



Hospital Sheets

I deplore the white sheets in hospitals,
sterile backdrops for the ill. They provide
too much contrast for a loved one’s pallor,
showing jaundice or highlighting the flushed.

Beige or ecru would mask the sheen of sick,
swallowing the bloodless, washing away
the remnants of summer’s faded tan lines.

She could be seen as regal, almost calm,
grey hair, not blue-rinsed, brushed off strong features,
if not for the lines etched around closed eyes,
lips pinching in grimace with each movement.
Her classic beauty hidden by the pain.

She belongs in pastels or bold color,
not the starched blankness of hospital sheets.


The Months Ahead

August ends with whispering
warm breath escaping from lips,
steaming the crisp morning air
in a swirl of coffee and cream fog.

September graces her
with bright sunshine and the desire to stay
beneath blankets, wrapped
naked in his warmth.

October promises hesitate
on the horizon, waiting –
anticipating their next move
forward, one step at a time.

November dreams drift in and out;
December remains in the shadows –
neither sure the other is real
both lingering for the new year
and the months ahead.


The Memory of Your Lips

Tossing and turning,
twisting sheets and blankets around my body,
wishing they were you:
arms, legs, and lips.
I wake wanting to feel
the warmth of your body pressed against mine;
find cool sheets and


Darkened minutes at two a.m. surround
this restlessness;
I stare at the ceiling
wonder if you are tossing and turning.

Chastising myself for such arrogance,
I hold your pillow to my nakedness,
breathe in the hint of your lingering scent –
drift backward into sleep once again;
the memory of your lips
curve mine in to a smile.


Heat Advisory
A stranger whispers appreciation
in her direction, a covert glance with
a secret smile steams the window between.
Despite the high temperature, she shivers
as delight trickles down her spine, racing
the bead of sweat between her breasts to soak
the lace caressing the curve of her hips
beneath a flimsy summer dress. A breeze
picks up the fabric, swirls it around her
tanned thighs before allowing it to fall
a kiss above her knees. Her smile, once
rare, graces the fullness of her lips and
laughter lights her eyes. She’s thrown off winter
embracing Spring and the heat of summer.
© Siobhan 
June 19, 2009

Paper-Thin Cuts

Jaw clenched, she moves cursor over ‘x’, clicks –
closing the pain away, pushing it out.
It may be a temporary fix, this
deletion, however for now it fits.

She feels her dental bill rise with each grind
of molar, the ache spreading from her lips
to temple with each sigh – suppressed anger.
These deep breathes everyone advises her
to take simply slow the sensation of
ripping beneath her breast – any moment
this beating heart will stop or detonate.

When they cannot see the bruises they leave
behind, when it’s merely some syllables
pasted on a page, meant to slice paper
thin cuts, shave off layers of self-esteem,
poetry takes on a different meaning.

© Siobhan