It nestled in the crevices
Of my glabella
Embedded like a ruby
In my face of ore
Where my crimson jewel
Sets ablaze your valleys
And melts your tundra,
The flame to your flint,
I am queen of Mars

Swatting back and forth
Posturing menacingly
Flying magic swords
Remembered tempo and feel
Departed master’s fighting hands

In black tie and shrouds
an audience crowds
into seats beneath bone candelabra.
They’ve come here to view
a rare pas de deux
known as the real Danse Macabre.

Prom 1965
My hair was sprayed
So high gloss
It looked as if it had been painted shut.

When my mother wasn’t looking,
I’d open the pages and find the one
with Lowly the Worm holding that
cupcake, and I’d apply pink tongue
to pink cupcake. You’d think I’d have
been disappointed, but, deep within,
I located the flavor of strawberries,
and maybe a hint of lemon, topped with
whirls of cream.