Rhonda Melanson

she writes
gritty thoughts on
sandpaper tongue,
a passionless french
kiss, ashamed for the
effort, fulcrum crashing
in deliberate inertia

grime on the windshields
of her blinders, carving
a niche of dishonesty in
her pumpkin face where
stubby candle has gone out

safe, dry sand sifts
invisibility cloak over
shy anger, letting it
soften with the neutral
tides

and ride her blackened toes.