Coccyx

Curled up in sleep, your coccyx

calls cuckoo to me, but

which way to go? Upwards,

along the stepping stones of your spine

to that nexus of nerves in your neck?

Or down into your dark heart,

past the fruit of last night into the

fresh taste of this morning?

A Younger Man's Car

The last time she’d done this

cars were like boats and

backseats like couches, she was

lithe and limber and

unbothered by prying eyes, but

cars had shrunk like her

expectations and her limbs were

locked and loaded with

children, stress, frustration, a

sclerotic marriage, so it took

several tentative thrusts before her

juices finally flowed and her

senses decoupled enough to

lift her complaining hips and

accept the limitations of a

younger man’s car.