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 story of two people,
sitting in the gentle night.
They hold their hands
without impatient fear.
Maybe this is true intimacy?

Too many plans, too many
subtle strategies
in the hiding place—
everything to avoid
the pain after.

Longing for what could be,
we say goodbye
to the now,
that leaves so quickly.

Between words,
taming the common confusion,
we will never come any closer
to another human being.

Celebrating the quiet feeling
of comprehension,
absorbed by the paradox of facts—
above differences, imposed tattoos.

We are sitting in the deep,
friendly night,
holding entwined hands
with an ephemeral moment
of fulfilled, trusting intimacy.

Maybe that boy just wanted a taste of the sun.

They tell me I'm fussy; with lovers, with books, with music. I tell them that I would rather freeze than be barely-warm. I tell them that if it doesn't set me on fire, then no thank you, I don't want it. It's taken me years to confess that I would rather be alone than settle. The truth is, I cannot stand the taste of in-betweens. Half- measures will never be a part of me. If it cannot fill me up to the brim, I don't want it. I will only ever be empty or overflowing and I'm okay with it. And they say, girl, how do you think a wildfire starts? From a spark. Relationships need kindling. And I cannot make them understand than I am not afraid to build on things, to work hard and relentlessly on something, but I must stop apologising for the fact that, truth be told, I cannot seem to want a love that does not engulf me. Someone once told me that when you've tasted fire, you ache for it, no matter how badly it burned your tongue. They weren't wrong.

Maybe Icarus knew what he was doing all along.

/a k/
noun
1. heavy wind, cold rain, & yes the stars, & yes these hands of mine. a dream in my chest is melting. my dream sheds its muddy, thunder-stained skin & asks for a heart of peony fields this time.
2. & the nights get heavy like they always do. i am older which means when i think of forests i get stuck not on the robin eggs but on the fox teeth. in my head I am hunting for myself, but I come up empty again. the night grows so wide it could be a cavern & i am somewhere underneath it, inside it, lost. but travellers always leave lanterns behind & as i feel for the candle there arrives a memory of bronze-coloured light.
3. so i dream, i dream, i keep dreaming. one word in my mouth crystallizes like sugar: hope.

im looking for a fighter...
im looking for someone to say
love you too
because ive been alone too long now..
and my pain only grows stronger
and my love grows longer

I used to think blue eyes were pretty,
his were not.
his were not cornflower, sapphire, baby, indigo, azure,
or cloudy sky blue.
His were midnight where the light pollution from the city blocks the stars.
Iceberg, squall, hypothermia, eventual death

it was excruciating to watch
the boiling in oil
listening, though never a sound was made
nor a struggle against

excruciating
to see a skinless man crawling over stones
silent as a sleeping lamb
blind yet fully bright

excruciating
to watch as he signed
asking for writing materials
then, on his stomach, begin to write

as though he still has fingers
as though he still has eyes

his story is a vision
written with spirit fingers
and eyes
listening to the Inner Voice

the only sounds
the scratching of a stylus across papyrus
and the sighing of Breath
as he listens


c. 2024 Roberta Compton Rainwater

decades after the ceremony
truth washed the plaque of fantasy
from my romanced brain

espoused
I read the lies
using romance-colored fantasy

fantasy clings and numbs
becomes a barbed *****
in a gorilla war

something dies

only to emerge
from the cocoon of barbed fantasy
with under-developed wings

flightless
vulnerable as a butterfly
awaiting her wings to strengthen

something lives


c. 2025 Roberta Compton Rainwater

bone collects wisdom becomes wisdom
it holds upright becomes upright
bone creates and re-creates
it creates blood becomes blood

what if God looked ahead
saw that Adam
who received the Breath of Life
was the only one who also was
the first one to have the Blood of Jesus
run down the cross on to his skull

bone becomes blood
blood becomes breath
breath is blood is bone


c. 2025 Roberta Compton Rainwater

She asked the wiseman
Could he describe nothing
He said no
But he'd have a go at everything
He began with
Aardvarks