Three short poems. Each can stand on its own, but when read together paints a picture of a troubled relationship.

Kurt Jackson flipped the switch on his new desk light. It was aimed right at him, and the light from the bulb pierced his eyes with the fierceness of a small sun. His body blocked the strong beam, projecting his shadow on the back wall of his small office. He quickly adjusted the light downward so that it illuminated the fading white letters on his keyboard. In that instance, his shadow, unseen, escaped from his body and vanished from the room.

She took the stage in her fiery red dress. She liked the center stage. She liked being in front of two hundred people--people with power and money and influence--with the hot lights pulsing down on her. She liked being properly dressed in a formal gown that flattered her figure. She liked wearing makeup and high heels. She enjoyed the idea that all eyes were on her. She liked to hold the room. She was clearly excited, almost agitated, a little like a squirrel spinning in circles. She held the little note cards in her hand. They contained everything that she was going to say.

They put me in a room and locked the door. I do not know who they are because their faces are covered with masks. I was supposed to be here by myself. Yet, across the room a man peers back at me. He stares at me through a mirror. Where did this man come from?  

What we wear is a reflection of our lived experiences. This is a series of poems that explore the way in which our clothing tells the story of our lives.

“Damn near a total blackout! Can someone get some light over here?” the detective yells. His flashlight is too dim to illuminate the area effectively. Heavy rain captures the light and distorts it, making it difficult to see in the nearly complete darkness of the blacked-out alley. Several more flashlights are turned on, casting blurry beams in the alley. “More light!” the detective demands.

It had to be perfect. She had been planning it for months, meticulously. Every detail had been gone over in her mind again and again. This was perfectly normal for her to plan everything down to the last detail. Every holiday, she drew and wrote elaborate plans for every room in the house, careful not to overdecorate.  

I sit on the edge of the building, forty-two stories up. The sun is in my eyes, slowing setting. The people below watch me--waiting to see what I will do. Lucky for them, I have not decided yet.

Rosa Kovsaleska refused to leave. On that point she was completely clear. She had said it every way that she knew how--in writing, verbally, even a sign on the door of her apartment. She said it over and over and she meant it. She was not going to leave.