Half slip glides
past narrow hipbones.
to bathroom tile. Feminine
wile: a tepid act.
Life: an ill-
hem. Some days I long to slip
free of this attire,
with keen eyes, noting
stains, a hole
in the sleeve,
before rending the cloth to
strips for the rag pile.
The Old House
A new swimming pool swallows the backyard;
the thinned woods are threadbare rags.
Our beloved maple now a phantom limb,
amputated for uninterrupted green lawn.
I ask: “If you could, would you live here again?”
My sister says no, too much has changed.
She pulls away from the curb, but I want to circle
back for one last look. I swear I left a piece
of myself in that unfinished basement,
beneath the grime-caked window.
M. Stone is a bookworm, birdwatcher, and stargazer who writes poetry and fiction while living in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Her poems have appeared, or will appear, in SOFTBLOW, Calamus Journal, and Amaryllis. She can be reached at writermstone.wordpress.com.