moon cratersTouch me,
I’m a new season—
a new color, and I won’t
ever say what shade;
and every time ‘reality’
turns real, I crater easier
spiders and flieswe are not children
who pinwheel through my mother’s garden,
who blur reality before we’ve even known the bliss.
we are not children who forgive easily
(like hearts aren’t robin eggs)
or who’ve never tasted the assurance from pinkies
and rattle-sore lips. and our sandcastles?
they will not house rapunzel but tumble before the sea.
It will not remember our footprints.
we are not children, though we may wish
to turn time like the three stirs in exciting, grown-up coffee,
like daylight on my father’s old clock, the one that
ended days too quickly
because we made chameleons of feasted lamb skins,
(because time was stolen, and time was precious),
and as hard as it is, we must adapt:
make-up masks and push up bras, to appear
inexperienced, but desiring, of a pleasure,
because although we’re deceiving, we can’t dream of blending.
You should know best of all,
that after everything, we couldn’t.
BostonThere are whales in the laundry,
breaching seclusions and polyester skin,
these aquariums swallowing the colossal
the foreign found in seashell shores,
bound to recede in another’s hands
like humpbacks drowned in cotton-sand.
phoenix girlThere is a mother inside of me,
calling the ink and the summers
to blanket the cardinals nesting
within the embers of her smile.
Never have I thought myself maternal
(I care for my wailing spine
with the distaste of smoker lungs
atop a writhing beauty’s lips)
but perhaps our birdsong is related
because she sings the same, sweet tune as I
but from the comfort of a frostbite
far deeper than my own.
There is a mother inside of me,
and I do not question why or how…
but I’ll nest in her regardless,
beneath the embers of her smile.
Who knows… perhaps she is a phoenix.
I will. (warning for prose,but mostly description)I.
I will rouse myself from casket mornings, and I will flex the 11 (or was it 12?) muscles in my mouth to form a smile—however painful. I will keep it there… because kindness bandages wounds in the best of ways. I will sip the horizon from my coffee, while weaving fairytales—without ever thinking that I’ve not the innocence anymore… because I’ll make it not matter. I will.
And I will forget him. I will… because ghosts only appear if you look at them, and he’s loved my nightmares—my tears—long enough. And because I’ve haunted myself long enough.
I will allow myself to feel human again, because I’ll remember that rain rids filth, but I’ll try to keep myself wishing less for forgetting-tsunamis… less for escapes just because of prints engrained in roots and soul. So I’ll forget his fingers straying past my heart—the way muscles seized, and cardiac arrest knew betrayal—and the way
Mankind likes it brokenMadness slipped inside of me like a hand beneath my blouse—thieving and too truthful—while i find myself in fetals, wondering where Autumn went… crushed beneath someone’s shoes, as i feel crushed beneath these memories?
i’m nobody’s treasure (just a no one in a body), and though this mouth is paralyzed, i scream these words ten fingers, to grasp at everything i’ve lost. But what’s the point? i rise from moondust graves when the sun peaks my head in halos; and i hope, and i pray, that this day is one of life… but every time, i am sent to death in stars and in the shadows of the dark. And i fear i’ll only be disasters, thrown down the stairs ahead of life, while i try to learn to fall in ways that will not break my neck, my arm—my spirit…
but every ‘wild’ needs a ‘broken,’ and i’m afraid He’s beat you to it; mankind just likes it broken.
I envy NeverlandShe becomes Tinkerbelle,
weaving coffins with her toes
and stealing kisses from magpie crows,
every breath heaving lungs
of ash & featherdust.
No one believes –
death keeps her like a secret
pulled behind gums and marbled teeth,
white-knuckled and bonedry –
so she chokes on bible verses
and desires angel faith;
but Peter Pan’s with Wendy
and lost boys, well, are lost,
and I am shredding pages;
it’s the way in which she writes
and the ease in which I burn.
we all fall downI.
my throat did taste
in my eyes
(if only I'd some kerosene
to set these lies afire)
they desired me
my crows to hide...
but they made night
and night did make
a critical November;
radiation killing cancer
a stem for you,
a thorn for me;
a briar mind
to hide unseen
and two cents guessing