Pie on a Windowsill

I plucked your
heavy, juicy, overripe
heart from the branch
and put it in a pie.
Extra sugar, because it was
especially bitter.
You can still see it pulse
under the lattice work
top.

Author's Picture

Can you see me?
I am a Writer
In all my pictures
my hand cradles my chin.
This very hand
drove the pen on.
Spilled the ink
that prompted the beat
of millions
of previously
uninspired hearts

I look past the camera
Truley seeing
not just this world
but all the
malaria infested others.

I can replace your neighbors'
punjas
with a white lady's orek.
This is the divine hand
that keeps you from
visiting yourself.
your grandmother.


I was sitting im ny poetry chair
wingback
and forgot to answer the door.
Next time let yourself in.
The kitchen window has been unlocked for years.
Crawl into the sink
and onto my lap.
Listen.

You've forgotten my birthday again
and I can no longer pronounce
your sister's name.
I only write love songs
to my fickle public.
I have given away the last of my honesty

to thicken the cake.
Who knew?

But
I've renounced these temple pipedreams
Now I will
Burrow
deep inside
me and yourself
past the songlines
through the waterfall
underneath your air-conditioned love,
unconditional.

Soon

Soon

my dear sweet

broken child.

No maybes,

But soon.

The universe likes to cup you in its hand.

A firefly caught

too easily

in the dusk

between solar systems.

Wrap yourself in the black

and starry comforter

and suckle on all

those broken promises

and unreturned phone calls.

You can't get too far

without someone

cupping you.

But don't expect any dinner invitations.

I am going to ignore the alarming news
and sleep until the apocalypse.
Right now, in this dark, gentle moment
The sun is out and clouds are to the south.
The full moon is touching me.
And before you know it the rains will come back
and our laundry and lunacy will be ruined
once again.
The sunshine never lasts here–
like you.
And while I hate to use the word fail in a poem,
Who are we kidding anyway?

By Allie Buck

I can no longer write to you
you took all my words.
Counted them,
reread them and filed them away.
My vocabulary is too limited,
I use the same words over so much
that they become grimy and smell bad.
But now you have quite the
collectors edition
of my broken epics
disjointed, subluxated
dislocated
love songs
written for no one in particular
and eaten by birds.