He beckons me forth,
my sanded toes dusted like candied fruit,
ready to be washed clean
by the delicate froth of white salted foam.
The hush of his tide brushes my bones,
black glass whispers,
rhythmic charm,
his fingers, luminous,
glint blue as he parades the coast,
curling around my ankles.
The moon sways,
singing silvered lullabies
rocking the earth
so that he sloshes, just so,
like the tilt of a glass
to your lips.
How could you not want to take
just one long, slow, sip?
I long to taste the briny wonder of that deep,
to float upon belonging.
The wind crests over the rolling water,
wrapping me in his cashmere grip,
damp earth, the raw green of kelp,
and butterscotch,
as if the sun had spun sugar
from his sweetness on the shore of day
and left it here in the breeze of night
to cool.
I wade into that ink,
assured by the calm and the air's friendly warmth
until I am marine to my middle.
My lips part in tendered sigh,
for at last, I feel I have found home,
but then, the sweeping of my heart
becomes the sweeping of my feet from under me.
I am dragged along the floor,
waves undulating viciously,
taking the whole of me with merciless desire.
His currents replace my breath,
my thoughts circling,
as if swirling into the drain,
I wanted to be a siren,
and didn't realize the sea was he.

I chiseled away at my marble,
chipping off the faults they proclaimed,
carving the weird, the unworthy,
leaving veins of 'truth'
Fingerprints linger in the dust on the floor,
where the best remnants lay forgotten,
the shoes that were too goody,
the hips that were too round,
the laugh that was too loud,
the silly khaki-less fantasies tie-dyed
and woven with moonbeams.
I stood in galleries,
tying my approval to wanted 'yays'
but no one recognized the girl
who was still holding the hammer.
I sat beside her,
my hand upon the chasm,
where a heart should've burgeoned,
and felt only stone,
pining for her name within the dolomite.
The crows brought me a mirror,
reflecting the squareness I had tried to shape
from my hexagonal being,
edges missing, sanded down
to match the softness of the world.
'rebuild' they cawed
recementing, unhallowing,
letting the fractures bloom moss,
and the rough edges catch the light,
we are not meant to echo.
Let the gallery grow wild,
breaking through the sedimentary,
sparkling eternal agate
from the stardust of which we are made.

I set the table before dawn;
the woodgrain clothed in white linen,
adorned with embroidered daisies stitched in hope,
fraying around the edges,
six chairs lay in wait,
none of them needed.
The wind RSVP'd weeks ago,
she brought ash instead of sugar,
while the silence stirred itself.
The roses arrived, already wilted.
I placed them anyway,
in the vase my great grandmother used
for holy water and secrets.
The cups are chipped,
the silver lining of the rims rubbed away,
but they remember the hands that held them,
once.
I pour tea, lukewarm,
for ghosts who do not thank me,
only mirror the steam,
their cries echoing in weighted air.
The sky cleaves beyond these hedgerows,
a throat that has swallowed thunder it cannot hold.
Still, I pass the cream,
to no one,
savoring the semblance of civility,
drinking down decorum,
a peace offering
to those who do not deserve
not even a lump of compassion,
nor a second thought.
I raise the fractured bone vessel,
"Drink",
I spit to the air,
"a toast to the burning
and the stoking of fires
that you just couldn't keep from feeding".
The kettle screams.
The world tilts, cracks, crumbles,
the crumbs unable to be swept from the table,
clinging to edges of lace napkins,
impossible to fold away.
Pinkies out,
I face the heat,
with a fascinator veiling the curl
of a smirk that knows it won't taste victory,
just finality,
steeped in bitter black.

pinwheels twirling
spinning from breath
blown through purple popsicle
stained lips
sparkling in golden streams of light
dust fairies floating
in a summer morning window
as butterflies catch
in the net of my throat,
words and wants fluttering together.
I spin silk around them,
wrapping them tightly while you aren't looking,
the wings too soft, too new,
to allow them to break.
The roses give me away,
reflecting their pink
on the ashen shyness of
my cheeks,
dabbled with freckles of copper
that fell from seraphim wings.
The stars witness me tossing stones,
desires dropped where sea glass cuts
and moonlight drowns;
They knot themselves to shipwrecks
no one has found.
I toss heart-wrought wishes,
the ghosts of dandelion seeds,
into the storm-ridden sky,
praying they will take root
somewhere.
someday.

Your tongue is tied,
cramped from its labor:
lip-service and laments,
twisting prophecy from parking tickets,
doom from unloaded dishwashers.
You monologue like a thundercloud,
over breakfast,
foretelling despair,
in the sogginess of cereal,
and how the day didn't start off
with just the right tone,
the sun glinting through the window
"wrong".
Every spilled cup is symbolic
every sigh a soliloquy.
You speak in psalms of pity
as if your calendar
were made for tragedies,
names written in expo,
scheduled to take turns
making you the victim.
Imagine the audacity
And when the world doesn't end,
exactly on time,
you sulk in darkened corners,
complaining about the shadows,
as if the loneliness your ego creates
isn't an apocalypse of a different kind.
The intent behind every word I utter
is spun into serpentine silk
in your ears,
so you paint me the snake,
accuse me of hissing,
when all I have done
is refused to speak Jabberwocky.

His words twisted the corners
so right curved into left,
and truth bent sideways,
making me believe
I was going the wrong way.
Hedgerows grew tall,
and thick with argument,
until they swallowed the gas lampposts,
turning pathways into shadows.
I walked blind and barefoot
through the thick of it,
earth damp, worn thin as my breath.
Was I supposed to find the center?
Was there ever an exit?
There was no map,
just whispers in the leaves,
and his voice,
ringing in my ears,
a compass spinning
from asking too many questions,
and doubt,
folded into my own pocket.
My soul became blistered
from chasing after ghosts of
wanted apologies,
so I kissed the ivy,
hoping the walls would soften.
but they spiraled,
a boa constrictor handcuffing my legs.
I took a sharp turn,
desperate,
crawling on my belly,
a soldier avoiding fire,
fingertips clawing into the red clay,
and found the center,
where a red lip-sticked mirror stood,
half cracked, words still whole:
"you're not the one who's lost"

I crack it open softly
letting a single sliver of soft golden light
pour in, a solitary ray of sunshine breaking
through the clouds.
I hear the whisper of her steady breathing,
rhythmic waves ebbing and flowing,
on the slow inhale of the sea.
Her old penny copper hair twinkles in the light,
strands borrowed from a seraph's braid.
I envy her easy slumber,
the way her lips part with the stillness
of full relaxation.
I tiptoe across the carpet,
a sentinel seeking to capture the moment
in a bottle, or in my marrow.
I sit beside her and marvel at the miracle of her,
how she was forged from my very blood,
from my very bones,
smirking; she has my spirit too.
The world will not be ready,
not for her fierce blue eyes,
nor the blade I'll teach her to wield with her tongue
and a spine that won't need fire to be steeled.
I kiss the top of her resting head;
she does not stir.
I retreat in tiptoe,
close it delicately behind me,
and I pray.
I pray she never forgets the joy
of floating bubbles.
I pray she always uses the word NO
as powerfully as the age of 3 declares it.
I pray she will continue to run to me,
for hugs,
for comfort from every dark,
for love that will cover over every hurt,
and tend to every need.
And I pray she could always know this peace
and the guard of a door
opened and closed
by a heart, humbled and grateful.