Blue plate special

He only cooks when he's angry. Seared scallops. Chicken, breaded and pan-fried. Anything that sizzles, to drown out my excuses. Tonight it’s steak, blackened, medium-rare. He serves it up in silence and I eat. Each mouthful tastes like ash. Each bite burns.

So close, so far

The moon shines down, her face inscribing a clear path between the banks - a silver span of light There flows a torrent of words between us a river of falsehoods and in the dark no bridge This mirror cinquain brought to you by the yeah write March poetry slam!


Three fingers for Sasha. I watched her bleed out. Three for Sinjin and Marc, lost in the blast. Three more for Mimi, whose last words I couldn’t hear. Three for Viktor, my last hope. So much grief, and nothing left for me.