by Dennis Paul Wilken

Guilty as Charged

Legs splayed
Like a gate, knocked loose from it hinges,
She moans,
And sobs,
Then later, lying on her belly,
My hands on her ass,
Pushes aside afterglow's curtained contentment,
Says: "You probably feel good but I'm conflicted
Because you control my body."
She's 27, a child of abandonment and Myspace,
So her fucking orgasms
Are my fault.


Past Due

Seeing my mom, at 89,
I can't shake the feeling we,
Like prescription medicine, and cheeses,
Have an expiration date
But are somehow congenitally unable,
Or unwilling,
To see it.


The Fool's Golden Age

Puttering around the house
Now too big,
Like someone else's pants,
The circle of her life
Reducing her concerns to meals, medicine
And the state of her bowels;
Still, for her age, exceptional,
But that qualification
As she falls toward 90,
Seems somehow
Beside the point.

Dennis P. Wilken is a veteran journalist and Editor and former writer for Cincinnati Magazine. Most recently his poetry has appeared in Word Riot, Madswirl and his editorials in Pacific Publishing publications.  His last chapbook, Sweat Off the Diamond, was published in 2009. He lives in Seattle, Washington where he is a Contributing Editor at Commonline.