She moves beside him in his bed

like a restless phantom limb.
She is really gone but he can still feel her
not just beside him but also
in his heart
in his head.
He wears a prophylactic wall
’round his prosthetic capacity to love.
He left his desire
to caress
inside her traveling gloves.
But he doesn’t miss her
naw, she was no thing
to him
she was everything.
His days are filled with
successive activities
and his nighttimes too
cuz when he stops for even a moment
lethargy ensues.
He’s become a fraudy artificial.
He has the robot blues. — Something He Told Me, by Annette Marie Smith

My Mother Is a Poem

My mother is a poem.
She is beautiful and she is inspired.
Her depths, not just stormy seas but chthonic, deeper than the resting places of ancestors and the keepers of the seeds and her heights
are beyond mere clouds
pierce the heavens with princess spindle
that is a lance that is also a lamplighter
so she can light the stars.
She is a myth based on a story
told against the cold
and the truth of that fiction astounds me
to my very bones. — Annette Marie Smith

He Is an Ark

He is an ark,
they said,
and he will carry you
over those troubled waters.
He is safe and heaven sent.

But she leapt from his wooden arms
and over the side and into the churning sea
and reveled
in what had been called folly
but felt like every kind of free.

The long shadow of his prow
followed her, an accusatory finger.
And he had two of every kind of net
and two by two of every kind of sharp edged thing
with which to hunt beneath the moon. — Annette Marie Smith