i have tasted gold
yet still i return to coal
in hopes of diamond

- p. winter

i've killed dozens
does, rabbits and hares
but i've never
caught myself a bear
they're crafty and clever
too strong to subdue
without special tactics
and i know a few
should i gain her trust
using a disguise?
should i gaze into
her frost tipped eyes?
run my hands
through her white fur?
listen to her gentle
relaxed purr?
now she's trapped
in my cruel snare
crying, distraught,
but i don't care
i could end it all
with a shot to the head
but i always loved
when they struggled and bled

pink princess gowns
                                                           ­ mud                        lace barrettes
                           bird corpses
                                                         ­       cherry candy
                       dried blood
                                          tea parties                  fabric fairy wings
         the therapist's office
                  spoiled milk                                           secret bruises
                         church bells
wooden spoons                                            jump rope
                                       bathroom scales
                                                          ­    lily of the valley smell
                rough hands
                                             january
    fourteen                                             ­                metal belt buckles
       teddy bears                 closets
                                            glitter pens in a diary                
autumn leaves
                                  rage
                   ­                               sugared raspberries
          grandma's apron
                                                        pur­ple nail polish
                                                          ­                               report cards
                        old cassettes
                                                       ­        cedar trees
flip phones
                                         kitchen knives

the clover and the bee
held a requiem for my departing spirit
though I had not died
nor had I crossed that river of ghostly intersession
spoken of -- in hushed tones
between illness and that last soft breath
in darkened apricot-bathed chambers
of deepest reverence

lavender light shone in the pupil of Death's eye
glowing his ravenous invitation to me
cruelly -- at my weakest state
between the yellowed bedclothes of illness
and the bone-white shroud of sleeping clay

my stalwart spirit jumped to remembrance
of that hidden strength
in my secret cupboard
of once-forgotten thoughts
where sunny, buzzing meadows
are locked away on tiny hooks
-- for such a needy day
long nourished on blossomed perfume and
the sweet honey
of my innermost ponderings
and hopes

with every sinew of my last effort
I rallied with uncertain goad
and sitting straight
I whispered

NO

~~~
Death heard that word as a shout
and flew
on bat-winged terror
out
of
the round window
in my soul
leaving me whole
and alone
with the fragrance of the clover
and hearing only the breeze
and the friendly hum
of my physician
the
golden honeybee

Gusts, pushing and pulling,
tearing at the roofing,
rattling the window panes,
howling down the chimney, screeching around the corners of the house --

the house that always stands on number five,
no matter what the combination, the co-ordinates
nor which way the chicken feet turn,
keeping me awake at night,
lamenting La Mort . . .

But after the seventh year,
the wind and I
came to an agreement:

Crowing at fifty-two tantras an hour
was far too slow.

Just. Eat a bowl of cereal.
Sit on the kitchen floor carefully so the milk doesn't spill, scoop the flakes into your mouth by the streetlights filtering in through the window.

Or climb out onto the roof.
Slip out your window, hip braced on the edge, and use your arms to pull yourself up, crossing your legs on the shingles and breathing in the stardust swirling around your head.

Create a masterpiece.
Dip a brush in some paint, use your hands to shape clay, choreograph a dance, script a play, write a poem, draw a spring day.

Make a blanket fort.
Tuck the blankets over the couch, pad the floor with cushions, and flick on the TV, so you can watch cartoons while wrapped in warmth like when you were a child.

Stargaze in the backyard.
Tiptoe out the back door, quilt tugged tight around your shoulders, spread it out over the dewy grass and stretch out, facing the clouds and counting the stars.

Learn Morse Code.
-.-. --- -. ...- . .-. ... .     .-- .. - ....     -.-- --- ..- .-. ... . .-.. ..-.     .. -.     - .... .     -.. .- .-. -.- --..--     -.- . . .--. .. -. --.     -.-- --- ..- .-.     ... . -.-. .-. . - ...     -... . - .-- . . -.     -.-- --- ..-     .- -. -..     - .... .     ... .. .-.. ...- . .-.     -- --- --- -. .-.-.-

Have a shower.
Run the water hot so it'll burn when it hits your back, shed your clothes and step into the steam, breathing in the vapors and imagining that you stand in the heart of a geyser.

Go back to sleep...?
No, this elusive peace is distinctly one with the night, and it would be foolish indeed to throw away such a gift merely to function during the bland sunlight hours.

h.f.m.

what is an object of devotion? a space in the shape of your empathy.

what is an object of devotion? a sign that says No Vacancies.

what is an object of devotion? i supplement where i cannot fertilize and a shrine in my closet becomes a gravity i orbit within.

what is an object of devotion? little planet, black skies, but i don't look up at all because the ground is so much more comforting.

I am infested
   with bulbs which
sprout from my pores.
   mold and fungus -
living things.

i clean myself with windex
   i clean myself with bleach
but i am still
unable to uproot
   that which sprouts within me.

i. the wind carries within it little knives, little grains, which sting when they strike my face. they strike my face and I am creating that momentum. i don't stop swinging.

ii. the two of us are here again and we aren't talking, but it's a camaraderie that lies among this pause. passing each other always a second too late; it's not grief I feel looking at your back, but it's something.

iii. I am standing far away. the wind blows cigarette smoke back into my face and it stings my eyes. the bit of moisture that leaks from within me is cloudy instead of clear.

iv. there's a padlock on the gate today and we stare at each other, dumb. the world may continue to move on around us but that second wherein the path we were taking suddenly became too over run with **** and branches to walk upon, to even crawl through, sticks us to the ground like a flytrap.

v. the lump in my throat keeps getting bigger. I ask you to feel it; swallowing with your fingers against my throat. it's probably nothing. but I'll be sorry regardless.  

vi. the two of us - back to back. when the wind backhands one, the other flinches in time.