Poetry! Open to critique.

Marked Calendar

The date was a scorch mark
a miasma eatting the calendar
burrowing its way through pages
and stomach lining
until the dragon emerges-

A toy fire engine, smoking,
on my tongue.

It's polite to play with it
to placate it
when you can't fathom the fangs.

Poetry post! Open to critic.

Yoke (2/2)

There was the tiger in the corner,
chewing on my shoe-
a stuffed animal warning to coo at
and pretend we aren't all the same-

afraid.

Poetry post, open to critique!

Yoke (1/2)

The sun was a mishandled yoke
spilling from my excuseless hands
onto the porclein-

Unborn children gazing up at me with emploring eyes
as I'd laced my business suit the wrong way-

too revealing

too vulnerable

too easily stained.