where did she come from
a meteor, it must be
her eyes contain the madness from stars
her lips the endlessness of the dark

Shoulder blades stretch,
Plates wobble and shift,
Civilizations disperse
Atop swinging hips,
Curved undulations of
Hills and ocean swells,
Belly glows a spring morning
Mist rises from
Fresh blooms,
Blood runs down legs, bark shines
Sticky,
Branch hands reach in prayer,
Clasp a golden globe
Plain and wistful.
Tender feet dig
Shells and stones
Unturned, fossilized
Breath escapes dank caverns,
Sweat slips free off stalactites
Into pools of obsidian waters,
Food for a river of souls.
Bones tug and hang on buried words
Etched in rock,
Beads turn between
Skeletal fingers counting
Eons off in prayer.
Eyes blink, pillars crumble,
Ash coats seeds
Under dormant temples.
Green and golden locks sway
Braids of jungle vines,
Ocean weeds on chest heaves,
Planetary body
Pulsates, writhes,
Bursts at the seams.

Like so many
times before,
she went out
into the dark
and pulled it
around her--
its cloak of
          charcoal
              staining
        her fingers
as she
grasped its
deeply opaque
fabric of smoke
turning her
eyes into mirrors--
mirrors reflected
inside out, thoughts
and feelings
brash and quiet
in their subtle
points of weaving
until the cold
gleam of shards
of the onyx air
clung to her form
like an inky abyss,
the very reverse
reflection
of black snow
spilling and seeping
into her essence,
filling the weeping
in whispery presence
until all she could do
was curl into the
soft embrace
of obsidian,
surrender her soul
to the starless sky
and let
it in

its a Sun splash
in the grey

a moment of light
in the dark

a lantern
across the sea

a home
in eternity

we see the gold’s of a shimmering
sun fall on the horizon, the last of
day, leaving trails of hummingbirds.

the sky begins to mourn the last
of light, scattering breeze-like
in a cloud of dark ink.

the moon pours pearls into cloud
widens her eyes; the dark gathers
the pearls, softening like dream.

thick honeysuckle traces the
walls, the immense night
sings of love in a gentle voice

and as the tide sweeps clean the
wandering sands, beautiful and
infinite the last star falls.

I’m afraid no one hears me.
I’m afraid no one will listen to my words.
I’m afraid that my writing will be forgotten.
I’m afraid you won’t miss me.
I will never be a famous writer.
My life will be too short; I will never get to live.
The abuse ruled my life.
The cutting made my life a living hell, I wanted to stop. I really did want to stop I promise.
I’m sorry if this is the last thing I write.
I never meant to hurt you, I wanted to love you forever.

She rises above Monamoy Point
on her wake—a Tenebrae of carbon
Then bolts back
careening cross blue-black—
through her lucent clouds of hair
from which on radii spray a diaspora of stars
Mistress of Metallurgy
tempered, tampering
Darkness forged to alloy with light

Men have always wondered...
how anything could be so round?

To arouse a sullen tide
her fingers palpate night-water’s lead
tingling light of limbs so spread
to her lover!

Close him in—
a pewter path of trembling touches
that ends in the small of her back

Men so wooed, still shudder
“How anything so tender...?”

could expose such stone!

She eclipses the sun!
She commands the sky!
...to hone his steel on that!