Other Poems by:

Sandy Hiss

A Gift for One

Strangers laugh and point at me.
Fingers carelessly lighting 
fires as if magic bred beneath
their shirt sleeves. I used to
burn badly. Now I stroll with
the pain. Bring me more, please. 
It is beautiful, no? Suffering.
So I'm the sour girl, woman-child.
The oddity. The shrinking violet 
in a field of drunk wild flowers.
And if you search long enough
you may see me. My short petals,
the purple glint in my eyes. 
But I blend in well. I've learned
to adapt to changing seasons.
Smiles in Summer, frowns in Winter.
So when you arrive at my garden,
don't expect to pick a bouquet.
I travel solo. A gift for one.

Hushed Breath

when you're not looking
the wind will steal your
carry them away
scatter them
like broken seeds
onto the earth, 
the dew of young ivy
or final wishes
of the dying 
the next time
a young poet
or poetess
shows your their
the ink fresh
wounds fragrant
spilling words they swear
originated from
the caverns of their soul 
then politely say
"You're welcome"
and walk away
reciting their poem
line by line
your hushed breath


I should have hung you out to dry.
Let the tempest have its way with
you before setting you down to roam. 
Spotted you hiding beneath piles of 
soiled socks and stained dreams. You
smelled of freshly dug earth where 
fallen leaves gathered for one last 
hurrah. I said a prayer for you, 
thinking you were too far gone from
salvation. I asked the sun if he knew 
your name; he called you stranger, 
having never seen the whites of your 
eyes, only gray clouds lingering in 
your sky. The moon leads you by the 
hand, pleading for another game of hide 
and seek. You oblige, always hiding 
in the shadows but hoping to be found. 


The lingerie baby doll
hangs patiently
from the plastic door hook
in the bedroom
shedding yesterday's
violet lint like dead skin
My thighs tremble
in trepidation
know what's about to
the squeeze
the constriction
the tightening
of cellulose
layer by layer
through bites of
macadamia nut brownies
and cream filled donuts
the raw skin
the bruised ego
the throwing of fits
This time 
the size 6 label
is ripped from its
mother's womb
left to fend for itself
in the jungle
of dress receipts
and discarded ego
The killer walks away
dragging the mother behind
there would be no witnesses

Copyright Sandy Hiss, 2007
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