so the editor found herself again
and decided that love never lies.
her parakeet befriended me,
but i didn't like birds.

i started out trying to write the world
and barely made it through the week.

she and i used to take walks
at three in the morning and
speak of the little things other
people don't notice.

i couldn't believe the crayon lines
were real and she didn't make us up.

she drew herself into the margins
of every book she read, then
returned them to the library
and hoped a suicidal soul would notice.

i screamed murals into a tape
recorder, and it only stared.

she had a collection of bird feathers that
represented each of her favourite
authors, because each time she read
another book, there was another feather.

we never sailed together, even
though the moon yelped for us
and she gestured for us, and

*(really, i was the one left hanging, empty hands and a broken neck)

i carry your bones
the sad smooth curve of your ribs

i cleansed what was left of you under the tide

i entangle myself in the sky,
grasp and tug on breezes,
expect grass to be as thoughtless
as my skin.



i am complete, here,
amongst the feelings of stones,
as april folds me,
intricate, in its madness.

there is settled ink
in the curve of your chin,
graceful arms shadowed
on your wall when
you decided, hey, let's
dance to the music of
morning birds. there is
empathy in the way
your tongue slides over
the word "we"
and tastes it like coffee
with cream and no
sugar. i took your
wondering fingerprints
and gathered them
against the wall,
placed so like the
direction mattered,
the colors fairly
blinded the tigers
sleeping under our beds
and they screamed
because there are
things too beautiful
for here. tomes
draw inspiration
from your voice and
write god words in
english so normal
people can understand
how some people
do not understand.
i typed you necklaces
and you wear
them on your skirt, taking
glances from strangers
and tucking them into
a deep pocket
for later and dark
and thoughts.
you set ransoms
for the autumn leaves
and put them in your
hair, i only left
them there because
nothing
is as good.



yet i am afraid. i am afraid of your willow-branch hair that raises the ones on my arms, i am afraid of your cotton ball eyes that flay open my thoughts, delve into the things i don't know, the things i didn't know, the words i should have said, the words that got stuck somewhere between my epiglottis and my lips. i am afraid that you are a violated temple, that you are an unholy goddess and i am deathly afraid of the fact that you might be human. i am afraid because dandelion seeds leave after you wish on them, eleven eleven turns to eleven twelve and you have missed your chance. shooting stars are only in the sky for so long, and i am afraid that you will only be in the sky for so long and i will miss my chance to catch you, i am afraid of your words that slip between my headaches and relieve tension. i am afraid that the sky castles that i built are only cages and no one can really live in them, including you. i am afraid that my list of requirements don't fit people, don't fit you, i am afraid of your beauty and afraid of your humanity, and so i wait. with my mouth closed. and smile when you stand to get a drink, as your skirt brushes softened legs, knowing something that you do not.

i leave my body vibrating
in the ground
in the thick vegetation clouding your body

the silent ticking
of digital clocks
cracks my skin in increments

round
a sun heavy in a wet mouth

i want to cut the men out from underneath my skin
my body bucks and shakes
another place
pulls at the cords embedded in me

i am not of here
your language is not my language
and the way you move your hands is strange to me
your people peer at me
and their eyes show me to be transparent

my form careens and wavers in alternation
i cannot record or observe myself
the air here shrouds me in plagues and sensitivities
my body is a battleground

i dreamed that i vomited out of my nose
and the space behind my right eyebrow collapsed
if i am only a shell for regurgitations of my surroundings
where does my image exist in full detail?
where did i hear this?
who do i hear now?

i feel like cutting off something beautiful.
grasp thick stems,
crush petals and leaves til they weep
dewy and full in my palm.
leave a patch,
the size of a man's fist,
the size of your fist,
the size of each fist that has torn
something out from my throat.

wobbling on legs
thick with fluid

i cannot clean
this taste
from my mouth

we must be gentle
especially with each other

the earth is growing
through our petty trinkets

and our shame is uncovered

anxiety is a dog whistle.
a hand on your knee
tastes like tin:
sharp bright lingering.
a survivor,
threatened
will begin preparations
for ten times their past.
in this way you can name shadows.
your body knows pretense
registers his walk
before you do.

close your ears

anxiety is a dog whistle
you are a dog

my palms hold no water
yet i am
a sack filled with rivers
a sack in the river

the looseness
of solid flesh
is unsettling

the earth wells up with light
at my eternal touch
great springs of it
cool and smooth and gentle
at my rushing face, closed eyes
the swoop of my body
silhouetted against the dark wise ground

the trees celebrate my hair
strands darting and playing
in the alternate shadows
patterned sun drapes me

the slap of my feet
solid and known
freed by the endless forest