Don’t burst my heart with tiny daggers,
Draw your sword instead.
I see you sneaking around
The edges of the battle,
Flicking your venomous tongue
From a reptilian head.
Just come at me with your saber,
Unsheathe your anger now,
Like the thundering clouds
That are brave enough to
I hate you!
Your poison leaks across your face,
Absorbed and erased
Your thirsty skin,
It drinks the bitter river
Of sin that pools in the corners
Of your smirk.
Your lips are dripping toxins;
Your mouth is spitting dirt.
A nuclear meltdown,
Let me have it,
Make me hurt.
Don’t burst my heart with tiny daggers,
They’re not strong enough to kill.
I’m here in all my luminescence,
My naked essence,
Just bright enough to spill
Your eviscerated anger,
Which drips like
From the sharpened edges
Of my quill.
There is a little man
Staring at me,
Cradled in my arms
With eyes so wide,
It is as if
They could hold
All my stars.
I am the universe;
All the darkness
Around his innocence.
And in this galaxy, I will hold
His hands forever,
Cloaking these tiny fingers
In the astral winds
Always my tiny man,
Clutched to the shores of
An ocean to my moon,
By the gentle pull of
A mother’s lunar light.
My little man.
My tiny shooting star,
Your blue eyes pierce my night,
Ripping through all of my defenses
With their unadulterated light.
Born from my core,
Breathing with me there,
By an indestructible force
That once formed cannot be undone;
A gravity of love
Between a mother and her son.
“The eagles should have been far seeing”
Was the last apocalyptic note she wrote
In her broken and trembling hand
Words that I tried so hard to understand.
What eagles? What sight could they have beheld
That might have brought back to her
A reasoned light to illustrate
Something other than her tortured mind
Worn fragile and thin by monsters,
Who starved, and beat, and raped,
Or would these brave and noble birds
Have donned armor in her defense
Flocking in hordes to peck out the eyes
Of those so vile that they would welcome,
Just to destroy,
The spirit of a foster child.
Or did these eagles nest inside her womb,
As like a sweet salvation,
My spirit bloomed
For them to lift on soaring, golden wings,
And place gently in her arms,
A child more precious than the moon,
And all its diamond light,
Since in my tiny form she found the strength
To chase away the memories;
To hold back a schizophrenic night.
So, it was these birds who were short of sight,
Who gave a gift and flew away.
Abandoned in her time of need,
Her mind crumbling from the weight
Of something from which she was never, truly free,
And though we tried so hard to save her,
No one was strong enough;
Not even me.
These lines on my belly are tangled and thick like
The dark underbrush of some Amazonian paradise
Where between the indigo streaks of
A primeval forest
Dance vibrant birds.
I can hear them singing there, chirping just beneath my skin,
A simple song of birth; of a million women clawing their nails into the earth, as in ecstasy they hear,
That first soft and mewing cry.
These lines are stretched thin over a canopy of soft and
Rolling skin, once taut and bronzed,
Now gentle and accepting,
The dance of tiny fingertips and toes
From deep within, and now without,
In the darkness of the night,
When I pull the covers to surround my children in
My warmth; the love that seeps from
Forests deep inside, and trickles without end
Through every hallowed line.
A high ridge in western Wyoming.
A heavy backpack on my shoulders.
Beneath me and rolling to all sides,
Darkened slopes of alpine forests
And reddened canyons cascading
In jagged crops of rock to
Unknown and wild gullies below.
And beneath the western sky,
Along the continental divide,
I am feeling like a thing that blends,
Like I could will my spirit from my skin and let it bleed into the sky and all the mountains calling, come!
And I would answer,
Here I am! Take me! Fade me into your crystalline air.
Erase me! Let this body go and drift my spirit into your singing spines.
And let the wind begin to roll,
In great waves,
Over slopes of thickened pines and brush,
It floods me in a rush that sounds like the aching song of something still free.
The rise and fall of a magestic, sacred sea.
And when the butterflies returned, they fluttered down from
Hidden caverns draped in verdant moss.
Trailing dark tendrils of apocalyptic dusk
They settled on the fragrant grass,
And like recessed memories,
And when the butterflies returned, they flapped their harlequin
Wings like Ashanti dancers in the wind
Clothed in Kente cloth,
Alighting on graveyard moss,
And like the faded wording on a wooden cross,
And when the butterflies returned, they skimmed like vibrant gems
Across the sea, and gathered like scattered drops of multicolored rain
Across the fallowed fields,
And rivers that had healed,
And where man’s touch had once disfigured,
Now all forgot.