Time unfurled
a single yarn from the hem of a sweater
pulling apart the fabric of it.
Light consumed all darkness
until even the word shadow
held no weight.
The heavy weights of fear,
depression, and the impenetrable bruises
of lifelong aches,
melted,
like winter snow being touched,
at last,
by the spring sun.
A room awaits, made for me:
a coffee ***,
always full and warm with welcome.
A leather bound journal,
with ever-ready pages,
and a pen with ink made from my own veins
that always knows what to say.
An old fashioned is served up promptly,
at 7pm,
when my mother greets me at my door
and curls up next to me on the couch
we talk and laugh,
for hours inside a minute.
Candles glow with ambered remembrance.
Music plays the odes to journeys taken.
My grandfather fishes by a river nearby,
teeming with bass,
and I glimpse the child he never was
smile at me.
Every morning the ocean of my backyard
kisses my feet as she waves hello,
her salt no longer bitter.
I greet the blood of my blood
and bone of my bone upon the shore.
They wear faces that, through centuries
still resemble my own.
We tell stories around bonfires
of the legends that we were in our time.
My soul is made tangible.
I touch the fringes of my warrior spirit,
caress the edges of my creativity.
I dance with the stars before dawn
upon a floor made of crystalline moonbeams,
and marvel at how green,
how delicate,
how infinitesimal,
is the Earth below.

I climb over the wreckage of you -
bent rusted iron, crumbled stone.
My cheeks - stained with soot,
hair -  dandruffed with ash,
skin - raspberried from sweeping the concrete
with my knees.
I unfurl the flag,
emerging from the tumultuous cocoon
of your cannon fire.
The colors fly - dancing with the bullets
in the summer soaked breeze.
I can just make out the haze of the gate
through the thick smoke pouring
from your tempered chest.
A smirk flirts with the corners of my mouth;
The resolute defense of the ruinous gloom
you will carry in dingy bags
made from the cloth of superiority.
I will feast upon a slice of cake
in the golden glow of morning.

Dawn breaks through the morning glass,
an unwelcome intruder,
golden light tickling my eyelids.
I want to brush her off,
to laze in the hazy quiet before the alarms.
In this half-life space, my pillows are clouds,
and my blanket is the whole of the earth,
swaddling me like an infant,
where nothing aches, and nothing asks.
The breeze from the fan brushes my hair
as it hums a tender lullaby
that was written just for me,
and as my eyelids close I can touch the hem
of my dreams,
stitched together with copper thread.
Walls woven with my mother's hugs,
My father's laughter,
My daughter's singing, sliding down rainbows,
playing catch with shooting stars.
I am kissed by the sweet sticky scent of cinnamon rolls,
fresh coffee, and woodsy stacks of books.
Salted air pours itself through open windows
carrying the welcome hush of the waving sea.
I can almost pinch the aquamarine of it
between my fingers.
BEEP! BUZZ! RING!
The alarm yanks me upwards
with corporate, expected, force.
I sigh,
rising to the gray of the same day mundane
that we chased after so briskly in our youth.
Now the grass is only greener when I sleep.

I built a throne,
in the darkest parts of me,
where the light wouldn't reach.
I wasn't ready to wear the crown,
or own my royalty.
The vines grew over my name,
tangled in my mane,
until I was caged
with shame.
I knew I was worth more,
but I could not remember,
what it felt like to roar.
I was muzzled, muted,
from sheathing my claws
to stay inside their box,
against the paradox;
trying to fit in
while my soul knew I was wild.
It is the act of a child
to deny the lineage we are given.
Purple is the cloth
I was made to live in.
I pruned all the kudzu,
determined to find my throne,
polished the coronet
whispered "we're far from over yet"
until it gleamed.
Now when I glimpse my reflection
I finally see
a Queen

Crimson Skies,
flooding rivers with violent tears,
swallowing innocent hands,
still clutching sidewalk chalk,
with gluttonous hunger,
taking what was never his to hold.
Crimson is my throat,
raw from screaming, cheeks flushed,
washed with fury
at the black mirror reflecting:
empathy - three likes
cruelty - trending.
Hashtag tragedies,
hot takes smoldering with self-righteous blame,
They forget,
over their brunch,
the crimson blood is still warm
in the muddy water,
pooled around broken sticks,
puddled beneath bent dumpsters.
WHO deserves that?
NO ONE deserves that!
Crimson breath in my chest,
sharp, stabbing, clawing at my ribs.
It is what remains when silence
must be the loudest voice.
A washed up note,
a prayer for help,
a plea against bullying,
now drowned in raging streams.
Irony, red-lipped, ruthless,
strongly typing out your cyanide,
taking away hope with thunderous words,
destructive, hateful, lightning.
I pray you remember your humanity,
and then,
remember them.
Remember their names.
Until Crimson means something beautiful
again

I was born
with questions in my mouth.
Why do wolves howl?
What do bees dream?
Will I ever be held
the way that the ocean's depths
hold secrets?
*
I pressed my hands
into the cool dirt of every mystery,
removed them to find earth under my nails,
ink on my palms,
and a smile I still cannot explain.

They tried to tell me:
not everything needs to be known.
But how could I keep from exploring
when every whisper of the wind,
every caw of the crows,
every daisy's petal,
tells me there is more.

They tried to tell me:
Pandora's jar is just Eden's apple
wearing a new name -
blooming only sorrow,
but can we really know the light
without the dark?

Hope was the last thing breathing.
She was caught in the looking glass,
unable to speak,
and I thought her reflection
looked an awful lot
like me.

In the hush beneath powerlines,
through fractured stones,
no gardener knelt to bless them.
No springtime choir sang.
Still, golden heads rose,
leaning towards the shadowed light,
the kind filtered by clouds
like a half-remembered memory,
or a lullaby hummed to a ghost.
Roots thread through ruin,
tasting rust,
sipping rain
that fell before the world began.
They were never meant to be here.
And yet
yellow ablaze in the rubble.
A flicker. A flare.
The petaled armor of hope
unfurled against battle-smoked skies
as if the world exhaled
and breathed them into being.

Snow falls, weaving lace from a forlorn sky
that caresses the tender edges of sand dunes.
Indigo waves buoy lamented lullabies,
filling empty drifting bottles
with salted cold foam.
Gulls screech,
shrill with curses
at the winking lighthouse
taunting the winged rats
with its cold, unreachable glow.
Silver threads of moon beams
luminesce the stardust under my feet;
my toes sink in as I pirouette
among other forgotten things:
bits of shell, braids of seaweed,
and stones of glass made smooth
by the ever-changing tides.
A clock washed ashore,
devoid of hands,
chimes notes for the unknown hour.
My footprints leave a path behind me
softly whispering my name
to the wind that welcomes me home.

He handed it to me when I was 25,
with a Cheshire cat smile,
knowing it wasn't my team,
and liking it all the better for it.
I wore it,
reluctantly,
the Kelly green of it a traffic cone
warning others not to get too close
brim worn thin
on the edges
where he was always
making sure it sat
...just.
right.
until the shamrocks stitched to the side
could no longer mask the shackles
I tore it off
set it ablaze in the front yard
and let my soft ginger curls
fly free in the breeze,
finally mine again.

He said my name like an oath.

I said his like a war cry.

We met in the ruins of reason,

and built something holier from chaos.


He wore the moon in his eyes;

silver light and tides that pulled me under.

I gave him the sun,

burned my hands just to keep him warm.


We weren't star-crossed,

we were conjured.

Some cruel myth breathed us alive,

then turned its back and laughed.


We stole time from the fates.

Danced in Hades’ garden,

bathed in river Styx,

stuck out our tongues

as the gods crossed their arms.

He held my soul in his teeth

like a prayer too sacred to swallow.


And when the sky cracked,

we didn’t flinch.

We were the storm and the silence,

the prophecy and the curse.


Let the poets argue if it was love.

Let the priests deny it with trembling hands.

Let the world remember -

we are unforgiven

for making the heavens jealous.

I died a thousand tiny deaths,
buried in doubt, shoveled under shame,
but now I rise,
my only burden, the pressure of becoming,
and the poundage of resurrection.
Digging through the scraps,
the discarded refuse, the forgotten waste,
finding bits of tin
that could be reshaped into stars.
I held the heat of them close,
let it melt the lead of my bones,
gathered up the pieces of me
they'd said were better kept in canopic jars,
forged them together until the plumbum
began to shine with gilt.
Now I no longer tire of pushing
the light across the sky.
Even the smallest, quietest soul
can carry the sun.

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.

July's sun lingers in the cobalt sky,
caught mid-sentence,
slipping golden syllables
onto the lake's reflective, glassy, skin,
making clones of dragonflies and clouds
that float above the inky mirror of it.
The trees lean in,
eavesdroppers, branches entwined,
hands held in anticipation,
like breath caught
before diving into the murky unknown.
The breeze waits with me,
the hovering humid haze
wrapping warmth around my forearms,
lacing my neck with diamonds of sweat,
the slumbering stillness of it
a cat basking in golden beams
that break through windows,
a welcome intruder that never
needs to ring the doorbell.
I peer into the black, skating the surface
with long seeking gazes,
depths of knowing just beyond the cover.
My fingers long to thumb through pages,
and let my eyes skim past the tension
and measure the density in the bottom
which doesn't hold oxygen.  
The world softly exhales,
reassuring hushes that dance in the willows,
rippling soft breaks into the lake glaze,
and I remember myself,
not as the ever unsettled silt,
but as a shimmer,
the quiet light
that pirouettes atop the breaks,
skating the undulating surface,
a daylight star, sparkling,
that never sinks in.

Canyon born,
sipping the wisdom of Grande Ronde
from weathered springs from deep within
pebble jeweled ground.
I sing their songs in the golden hush of morning
as I feast upon the sun,
low, root-deep,
native as the wild wind that dances with me,
fingertip to fingertip
petals flaring red with rare fire.
They once sought after me for medicine,
an ample stem for leaning on
with their tongue-tied cracks
until their fear captivated me,
forced me into containers,
made for befriending hummingbirds
that drink of me so they can soar
sideways shuffling away
with their self-important iridescence.
I may not outlive this cell,
plucked away from the sweet summer grass
that taught me to plant seeds.
Those sprinkles claim the clay anew,
re-rooting my lineage.
The legacy of my blooms lives on
in the whispers of butterflies,
and the hum of the earth.

She waltzed in wearing lavender -

not the bruised blue hue of dried buds,

but the soft, delicate shade that makes you forget

poison can be pastel

and alive.

The cerulean seas of her eyes

surveyed me with a crocodilian smirk

an undertow ready to clench and drag

for its own amusement

She smiled like silk,

shiny, delicate, costly

as she handed me a cedar latched spice box.

Inside

red cords, scissors

pressed flowers so fragile they'd shatter

with a whisper

and a single letter sprinkled

with cayenne

sealed with red lipstick

too heavy to open.

"Time doesn't belong to you," She whispered

like it was a flirtation

like my hours were hers

to unwrap

to discard

She kissed my questioning forehead

soft, sealing, dismissive,

answered nothing

just reached for my hands

with perfectly manicured cold fingers

I gasped awake

my mouth full of cinnamon

dry and hot

a goodbye I didn't choose caught in my throat

that I prayed I'd never have to speak.

She's reappeared now and again

in the corners of mirrors,

fond of the elevator's reflective surround

and the hammered copper coffee jar

that stays open like a lifeline.

always twirling her ashen ringlets

waiting? warning?

When I glimpse her, I open the lace covered windows

and let the sun reclaim the shadows -

until even her perfume forgets my name.

Fancy free, feet loose
dancing on your shoes,
toddling till my toes could tap,
frying like bacon on the carpet,
sizzling away from the fleeting
summer days.
perfection in simple, uneven
steps.

Pulling hoodie strings down tight,
gifting one arm only hugs,
and pinky promises;
my swivel hips will stay in the living room.
How I fall in love watching you
spin, and dip,
twisting together into pretzels,
the way I can only imagine lovers do.

Spiraling through the danger zone,
we set the floor on fire with the family name.
I could have sautéed in victory,
dressed in gold from crown to blouse,
sporting purple satin pants that bruised the ego
of men who tried to demand I wear a dress.
I never thought not to believe,
there'd be no one to sashay
in a moonlit kitchen with me
*
Now... my pen swirls and curls
over neat blue lines that reflect
the somberness in turns
I do not get to take
within shared space,
others wrapped in tangos
as my favorite songs play...
dance card empty...
everyone seems to have forgotten their pens.

I caught the deep inky blue of it
in bottles
labeled 'pleasing'
and set them on a shelf
next to bowls full of tears
and baskets full of unwanted memories.
It was cold
aching like limbs in the winter
sip it,
let the ice unfurl,
bitter on your tongue,
grief catching
in your throat
before settling into the pit
of your stomach,
like a swallowed apple seed.
one day the winds came
knocking all of the bottles down
and all around in the broken air,
ruptured by the fragmented glass,
screams - starved and rising
screams shattering bone
screams - ringing
wild and ragged
at last.

I was born with 12 eyes
they said it would make it easier
to see the light
but it only left me inching
in a fog
hiding from shape-shifting shadows.
So I learned to consume the dark
with my mandibles
and let it seep in to my hemolymph.
The parasitoids laid out fences
of peppermint and lavender -
trying to cage me.
But the oak tree took me in
and let me rest upon her leaves -
told me to shed my old skin.
I hung myself upside down under her branches
tried to see the world from their point of view
but there was still so little light,
and the birds were cawing
threatening to have me for breakfast.
I learned to hold myself tightly,
wrapped in imaginal discs
that liquified my dreams
into a rich soup for me to drink.
I emerged
soft and wet -
with ommatidia that see in all directions
and bear witness to invisible colors;
and with wings formed like dragon scales,
that move in the shape of infinity.
Now I feast with my feet,
feeding on nectar of Chloris
and cross continents
while they marvel at how far I have come
from the ground they tried to keep me on.

Grill smoke wafts over trees
curling with familial laughter,
giggling, playing hide and seek
amongst the leaves
as it carries the savory scent of char.  
I peel open the tender green husk
of fresh shucked corn,
it squeaks - old door hinges,
guarding the secret of nature's gold.
It smells of sunshine, and days in the dirt,
like my daughter's hair, as she clings to my leg
with all the delicate softness of stubborn corn silks.  
We lick ice cream in the sun,
the cool creamy liquid puddles
in the canyons between fingers,
in the corners of smiles,
leaving their sticky memory
in cocoa colored rings around shared quips.
We catch fireflies,
collecting night's wisps in cups,
making wishes on the tiny, blinking,
handheld stars.
We let the moonrise tuck us in,
when the crickets start singing lullabies,
cherishing the long days
when the clock can keep the calendar company,
locked safe away in the closet,
until August's end,
forgotten.

I crawl into my skin,
letting my soul sink
behind a barricade of my bones,
folding my sleeve-worn heart
into origami cranes
that nest into my ribcage.
I blur my rough, rusted edges
until every pixel of my frame is softened,
blending with the floral wallpaper
where I lean like a forgotten daisy.
I turn my voice into a whisper
softer than weaponized silence
twice as deadly,
compartmentalizing my tears and smiles
into separate boxes and bottles.
You're not supposed to mix the lights
with the dark.
Only my eyes peek out from my armor,
checking the coast,
...it's never clear.
I can still taste the salt on my lips
from licking the old scars
that you pressed upon,
fingers dripping with melted butter,
ready for a feast.
My once soft shell
now hardened,
calcified with every lie I ever believed
about myself.

When the midnight oil has waned,
and the candles waxed,
puddles of sage-scented sandalwood
pooled on oaken tableaus,
the scent of sulfur and kerosene
all that remains to show that something,
anything,
had burned here.
-
When the moon has hidden his face,
to shine upon some distant galaxy,
forgetting the steady, long-loved sun,
the tides pulled out and away,
no longer holding the sand,
leaving it to shiver in the damp of forgotten froth.
-
When the camp fire dies,
and the last of the hopeful dancing embers
shrivel,
their pirouettes curling into gray streams
of unrequited smoke,
fresh logs lay dreaming of pyres,
as orange fades to black,
marshmallows piled, unroasted,
in bags that won't be opened.
-
what is left,
once everything has died,
but... to make new light.

They laid me to sleep
in a coffin made of glass
lined with velvet apologies
thinking I'd dream of oceans
or forgiveness
or that one perfect nectarine
I'd dropped in 2003.
The ceiling shattered
while a symphony played
... wolves chasing Peter,
and me.
They chewed on my ankle -
wearing a voice that once prayed for me.
My nerves bloomed bruises.
My hands turned to questions,
tossing runes to the laughing sky
that held no answers.
My skin peeled,
old wall paper from worn bones,
regret curling
smoke above untended altars.
This is what it must mean
to be haunted by your own heartbeat,
to taste rust on your tongue,
with feet that remember
what a mind will not admit.
Love letters delivered in salt,
signed in static,
that simply read
"Persephone,
come home."

I've been smoldering

since the flint was struck.

In the bellows, caged only by my ribs,

enough hot, dry, salted air

to stroke the tinder with every breath.

Softwood amongst the dry grass,

I was kindling.

They kept trying to smother me,

kicking dirt,

throwing their solo cups full of

boxed wine,

all over my intention,

aiming to ***** out every ember.

So I picked the heads of dandelions,

laid down among the cattail leaves,

wrapped in poplar cotton,

and magnified the birch of my bones,

begging for a flame

that refused to come.

I tore the words from sodden

paper promises,

tied them with the ragged hem

of my once white dress,

blistered my hands with the bow drill

until I found the spark.

You'll try to say you were my kerosene,

but the pines know I was enough fuel.

You can't see the forest now,

for all the char;

the ash laughs along with my fire,

wild and free.

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.

The languid breeze tunes the trees,
rustling their emerald leaves,
their limbs whispering ancient lullabies
to the bees
that hum along in honeyed harmony,
drunk on nectar
and daylight.
Cicadas buzz, syncopated techno electrics,
a tireless refrain that rises,
falls, rises again,
never rehearsed,
their scores born in the heat of noon.
Birdsong floats,
loose threads stitched
across a cerulean sky,
sparrows riffing jazz from telephone wires,
crows clicking bones to the rhythm,
gathering what's been dropped for rhythm's sake.
Even the grass joins in,
the dry scrunch under bare feet,
a soft, raspy cymbal
played by the soles of wanderers.
Spanish moss dances,
swaying lazily,
passing longing glances
towards the willow's limber ballet.
Crickets bow beneath dusk's curtain,
stringed legs chirping,
plucking gracefully,
a twilight metronome counting beats
between firefly flares.
Beneath it all,
the steady hot breath of the southern wind,
the exhale of the earth at her zenith,
drawling backroad red dirt prayers,
steady as a Sunday morning hymn,
summer, lowing it's own hallelujah.

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.

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.

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 measure bitter bricks,
shaved from unsweetened slabs,
weighing the impulsive thought
of daring,
to taste the bitterness,
licking the rich dark earth of it,
longing to savor
the treasured ancient world
that grew it.
I temper the desire instead,
melting it into a swirling brunette liquor
enriched by sun-thickened gold.
I mix the crystalized syrup
from nature's canes
into powder made from dried nibs.
Their life has been brutal,
dried, roasted, crushed,
until they turn into
the rarest of brown sapphires,
only to be finely milled
for other's pleasures.
I whisk the whites of *****
until they resemble cirrus cloud,
streaking the sky blue bowl - no longer a clear day.
As if I were born to play mad scientist,
the ink, glitter, and clouds are brought together
with the heart of the harvest,
and just a whisper of expansion.  
I unfurl the silken tapestry
and send her into the hearthen forge.
Waves of rich, decadent warmth roll in,
a fragrant tide filling every crevice,
taunting even the lurking ants.
Time's invisible hand lets go,
and a captured morsel on a boat of silver,
lifts to my lips.
I plunder the symphony of indulgence
on my tongue,
and groan, like a lover,
fully satisfied.

He stood on the bank
since sapling days,
watching the river wind,
making homes for feathered guests,
who came, and went,
then came again.
He held secrets for lovers,
initials carved into his bark,
and he learned the ache
that came with love,
and couples came, and went,
and others came again.
He relished the giggles of children,
that tickled his leaves,
when his arms were strong enough
to hold the ties of laughter.
They'd swing out, splash in,
then swing out again.
He saved a life once,
when the waters rose,
crumpling stone, twisting metal.
He caught her in his arms,
wrapping branches around her,
his roots holding firm
in the ground that made him.
Her tears sank into his rings,
and though the raging waters subsided,
her grief remained, deep in his roots,
and he longed for the love and the giggles,
that had come, and been swept away,
to come again,
wishing his arms could have saved
all that the torrent stole

I was born with unopened eyes,
skin striped black with shadows of my ancestry,
a roar that resonates in my bones
calls me to the water,
and to the hunt.
They tried to cage me once,
to ***** out the orange of my wildness,
file down my fangs,
told me I could live on
packaged, processed meat.
I chuffed at them
having taken the mangroves as my lover,
his salted bark the perfect reflection,
both of us camouflaged between earth
and sea.
He never seeks to tame my roaming ways,  
paws itching for unfamiliar earth,
claws ever carving new ground
He simply lets me breath, unmuzzled,
free to embrace my soft feminine wild

She was busy counting wolves
conversing with crows
soft and white as a widow's linen.
They scoffed at her,
called her delicate,
only good for stew.
So she dug herself into stories,
buried beneath the noise
let them hunt after the myth of her,
never finding it.  
The forest swallowed her,
dried leaves and damp earth
scented with cinnamon
embracing her bones
in the hush of the underbrush.
She multiplied in silence
beneath the roots,
growing wild
through branches of wildflowers.
The thicket whispers a warning.
The hunters have gone missing,
and the doe-eyed jejune "varmint"
awakens whole, green with breath,
wild,
and never soft again.

The bright cold expanse of the world greets me,
It is thunderous, stark,
I feel infantile and foreign,
so I say 'hello' with a scream.
Then your arms cradle 'round the whole of me.
Safety envelopes me with warmth.
My ears find the rhythmic drum of your heartbeat.
I surrender to it's lullaby,
and dream.

The aggregate sidewalk won the battle
with my tender unsteady knees,
which wobbled too eagerly forward
chasing butterfly fairies and June beetle wisps.
cherry red tears drip from the wounds,
echoing the cries from my eyes.
Then you arms carry me home,
your lips humming tunes as you wipe away
the hurt with soap-scented love.
I smile and break free,
ready to run again.

I shrink myself into hoodies,
a game of hide and seek
where I am permanently hiding,
bedroom doors closed, hinges oiled with sullenness.
The mirror distorts what I see,
reflection bending to their teasing
until the beauty that you gave to me fractures.
Your hands squeeze my shoulders,
centering me back atop of reality,
handing me the tools to mend my own heart,
and showing me the mountains I have flicked off of my shoulders
as if they were mere mosquitos that loitered too long.
I let gratitude scream through my arms,
and embrace the truest love
that anyone could ever know.

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.

He inherited the tightly folded linens,
starched corners, brittle creases,
bleached until they could no longer recall
every harsh argument around the table
that held them.
Every hem had been stitched shut with silence.
Every stain scrubbed until the blood
resembled rust
and flaked away.
I run my fingers along the monogram,
stitched by hands that had swallowed their own fire,
and marvel at the paradox;
how simmering anger can still
make something so delicate.
She embroidered flowers
no one ever named,
roots turned sharp by willful ignorance.
white thread
on white cotton
"elegant" defiance.
You had to tilt it toward the sun
just to see the blooms.
He told me how on Sundays
she laid it on the table,
a weekly treaty,
a wound she dared anyone to set a plate on.
They never noticed, too busy carving the meat.
The white flag was already folded.
The surrender came with matching napkins.
Now he keeps it in a box
lined with cedar
and the scream he keeps folded beneath it.
I tell him:
use them
or burn them,
but never pretend they were clean.