Betsy Johnson-Miller

lick the sand

from my wound
than hope

good things will come
to the corner

of my heart

where someone built
a temple

without my permission

my wound is simple

always there

unlike that relentless
god who

comes and goes
like a tide

leaving the beautiful
and broken
behind

a wasp hides in the ark
of my ear

a peach settles in my throat
to rot

o lord how long

must my skin entertain this coven
of spiders

today is Wednesday

you'd think tomorrow
would be a different day

coos moved quickly
to udders

owls we stayed awake
until our young

climbed on us screaming
sometimes with delight

for now we roar
our love and frustration

but I bet we'll become
marmots
you tell me

when it is just the two
of us again taking baths
in every sun

too soon we'll turn turtle
all that slow

time for you to gaze
upon my soft neck

tell me how are we supposed
to do it

in such old shells?