Garnet Brigade

by Rebecca Miller

I am a seductress and I collect broken hearts.
I have them pinned into shadow boxes.
Many Victorians would be jealous
of my specimen collection.
They fall into my lap with blood streaming out,
shards skittering.
So many dresses stained and ripped.
Plum, teal, mint, lace, silks, cottons.
All defiled with vital fluids.
Best first attempts at the art of preservation.
Organ tissue taxidermy with pins and plush backboards.
Some small, some enormous, some shared.
Complicatedly delicate arrangements, filigrees of life.
They belong to men. Strong men.
Men who signed consent forms
 to release their hearts.
Shamefully, it is not for science.
A grave humiliation for all.
Shimmering rubies and so the obligation is large.
They must be guarded, not besmirched.
Each piece is prerequisite to the next.
I weave the ruddy morsels into compositions
of great artistry.
My finest works all covertly displayed
in the damp and darkest vault.
It is made of cedar, heroically scented
after the men who gave their hearts.
Locked with thirty two locks,
one for each treasure inside.
Sometimes, they come running.
They want their hearts back, they cry.
If only I could oblige, if only their wives
could tape them up like kindergarten crafts.
Not because I cannot, because I will not.
These jewels were gifts bestowed to me!
They will not be savagely ripped from their alliance,
their haunt.
And so they weep: for lost love, lost hope, lost passion.
Ruined men, they are dark princes of my army.
A battalion they painstakingly walked into as
machines ruled by instant gratification.
This is a life sentence, doomed into ranks of triviality.
I dominate them with words and keys alone,
until the day I pommel my scrapbook
of lust and set them free.

Girls Night Out

by Rebecca Miller

Why we dance like empty headed souls
at bars filled with drunkards.
Our self worth heightened by their lack of humanity.
Screaming at low paid musicians,
and foul-looking single men who paid five dollars at the door
for a night filled of free hard-ons.
It's only fair;
if we taunt them in glitter, cleavage and saucy perfume.
We are women that spoken for,
but whiskey evokes primal rages that diamonds could stop.
Dim lights hide imperfections,
that are hard to look past
when your personailty is being projectile vomited
from every movement made on that putrid floor.
Pushing the limits,
acting single and we know our night is done.

We Are Super Women

by Rebecca Miller

The little lover bug is sick.
Labored breathing and barking cough
haven't slowed her down.
She runs like an Olympic medalist, she
takes barbies serious.

We blow bird-shaped water whistles
and gazillion bubbles at midnight.
We advance in therapeutic medicine,
we are super women taking flight.

As a toddler you have little time,
for medicine, nebulizers, hydration.
Reviewing sesame street and
snuggling with Mommy takes priority.

She has given up her fight.
She sleeps as I study her chest movements,
her wheeze makes my heart beats faster.
I carry her, Bear-Bear, and blankets to bed.

When morning wakes her, she cries
While sleep overtook her, she was stuffed to the brim.
Tissues are meaningless when you cannot blow your nose.
"No boogey-sucker!" she screams in terror.

She tries, she ends up spitting-
no snot will come out.
Tired, frustrated, and congested she says:
"Mommy I'm not super anymore."

Dimly Lit Room

by Rebecca Miller

Darkness fell -so did my slip, dress and heels.
He switches off the lights, I turn them on.
Absinthe scorches my lips, his thighs.
We tango hip to hip, my feet never touch the floor.
He trademarks my neck with his teeth.
Green nymphs parade across his shoulders as we dance.
Fast, slow, matching, pacing.
His smirk, a result of my rowdy lament.
Multiplication is my specialty.
Bound, by his coarse hands and palatable cologne.
I am useless.
He divulges my fabrications like a theatre production.
Ribbon working like chains, and it's his turn to bat.
I tease, he begs, I relish.
Edging too close, I bring him down.
Finishing line crossed,
He leaves me wanting.
A migraine replaces ecstasy's face.