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Nov 2017 · 3.0k
you and me
Erin Suurkoivu Nov 2017
and between you and me is the world

and between you and me is a language

and between you and me is culture

and between you and me is a war

and between you and me is religion

and between you and me is a wall

and between you and me is perception

and between you and me is ourselves
Nov 2017 · 337
Erin Suurkoivu Nov 2017
her shadows
have more weight
than my ghost

in my hands
a basket
full of ripe

they prefer
those bite-sized
cookies with the
******* fortunes

plain language
in which
nothing hums
Sep 2017 · 484
Erin Suurkoivu Sep 2017
Learn their language. You will
need the words
to sing
your own songs.

Let them name you:

We forget that
is still
a weapon.

Laugh at their visions,
their one-faceted
solve all

Remember that
every day
you rise anew
like the sun.
Apr 2017 · 616
The Chase
Erin Suurkoivu Apr 2017
in the old neighbourhood

I had never felt more beautiful
and unafraid.

But I am afraid now
as you stalk near.

My words are naked babies
and I must run.

Swifter beasts than me
have not survived

the chase
across the savannah.

You too struck
quick as lightning.

Do they willingly give up
their bodies and blood?

Are they all too happy
to submit to death?

But I,
I just wanted to get out alive.
Mar 2017 · 561
becoming clear
Erin Suurkoivu Mar 2017
I search for the true reflection.
Is it in the mirror or the camera?
Is it in a lover’s eyes or an enemy’s?

I don’t profess to stand on a pedestal,
but I stand on something,
and it seems it’s always something

that knocks me off.
And we may say, I know, I know,
for I have also been there.

I know who she is. I know, I know.
I know the problems she’s facing,
as if we are all wise men.

But it’s becoming clear
that you can only ever walk
in your own shoes.
Mar 2017 · 373
glass bones
Erin Suurkoivu Mar 2017
what is sand
but the finest of glass?

and what are bones
but the finest of ash?

and you may try to crush
me down into the finest of elements,

reduce me to nothingness,
******* to the wind.

but I have a talent
for rising again,

oh yes.
you cannot keep me down for long.
Mar 2017 · 760
latitudes of freedom
Erin Suurkoivu Mar 2017
the latitudes of freedom are not hard to measure --
though they can be difficult to achieve.
there are limited means, and a day --
dashed by uncooperative weather, the wind
outside raging like some mythical beast --
blowing the snow sideways, piling the drifts.
and so the day unfolds in the usual way,
and the night -- the foreseen sleep interrupted,
as it has been for years, and the road ahead --
while invisible still -- promises more of the same.
Feb 2017 · 1.4k
The edges
Erin Suurkoivu Feb 2017
the edges are stained blue

and no matter
that spring is holding out its hand
in a promise,

spring becomes summer,
summer fall,
and winter again,

and the hours and the hours and the hours

and cities rise
and forests fall

once, gods
are now falling into disrepair,
temples on the verge
of imploding.
An old friend of mine is dying. He's on the other side of the country. I wish I could see him one more time. Money is nothing to some people, but everything to me.
Jan 2017 · 378
Erin Suurkoivu Jan 2017
you love me -- though you don’t

know me fully --

just as you love

the stars at night --

the vastness

you can’t imagine --

lighting up

Jan 2017 · 707
scar tissue
Erin Suurkoivu Jan 2017
dense as marble, your body
is something to hold onto

after years of chasing shadows,
thin reedy men whose leavetakings

were their legacies, fashioning
(maybe by accident) crude sharp tools

with which to stab my heart.
look at it today,

made thick by crisscrossing
scar tissue. have you ever seen

anything so beautiful
that was broken but

unbroken? here, feel
the heft of it in your palm.
Jan 2017 · 432
Erin Suurkoivu Jan 2017
Forests were torn down and
cities built because of surety.

How can your child's face
assure me of my future?
Dec 2016 · 559
Erin Suurkoivu Dec 2016
you are so enamoured
with the honey on her lips

you don’t realize that mine
taste just as sweet
Dec 2016 · 489
Erin Suurkoivu Dec 2016
It is her spirit
you fell in love with.

Be careful
not to crush it –
beneath your heel –

shattered glass remains
shattered glass.

I held up the mirror
just to see
if you were as unrecognizable
as me.
Dec 2016 · 604
Erin Suurkoivu Dec 2016
and it isn’t so odd that
we become each other’s
caretakers, as like
children, we reach for love,
as if we’ve never endured
a long winter’s night alone,
hope the last matchstick
lit in our hand.
Dec 2016 · 1.2k
A sky, pale after sunset
Erin Suurkoivu Dec 2016
A sky, pale after sunset,
is darker than a blue one at midday.

It’s your light I love,
shining from your smile.

Innocence has such light.
I’ll face it head-on. Sweep away

the shadow of my years
with your golden laughter.
Dec 2016 · 1.8k
Stuffed on chicken wire
Erin Suurkoivu Dec 2016
Stuffed on chicken wire,
no rooster in the yard.

I’m practicing magic
while the lawnmower rides.

Funny that,
said her valentine.

They hadn’t yet learned
there’s so much to know,

her body opening
like a rose.
Nov 2016 · 755
ordinary life halts
Erin Suurkoivu Nov 2016
ordinary life halts
when there’s a power outage
(especially in the country)

no shower no bath no TV no
Internet no fridge no stove no
oven no flushing no music
no reading (no lights) no dishes

no distractions - just silence
the in and out of breath
Nov 2016 · 656
who told you
Erin Suurkoivu Nov 2016
who told you
you were not beautiful?

does that mean
not worthy of their time?

but anyway
they stated as such

if anything
their actions proved otherwise

but no matter
I’m trying not to mind

that I was never real
figment of imagination

whatever you cast me
I betrayed love

and cast heroes into new moons
beached jellyfish

I’m learning to gather bones
painting a canvas

instead of
reading newsprint

sculpture of messy clay
ultimate opus

good gold
honest trinket

bees’ honey
I recognize my self

ageless blue

in all that is

small practice
sunburst navel design
"B side".
Nov 2016 · 559
Erin Suurkoivu Nov 2016
Do you see what I see?
We have descended into the belly of the beast.

Houses crowd together, their dead eyes staring out.
They’ve sprung up overnight like

**** toadstools.
The machines on the hill are busy

Scraping away the old. By that I mean
What was there before,

A forest naturally,
And putting up these monstrosities instead.

It can’t be let well enough alone.
There are too many people and someone’s got to make a buck.

The world burns down to the filter.
We suffer the fevers of the dry needle people,

And are left with what has been
Torn out from under us.

Some privy chair propped us up with potions.
Dutiful pawns, riding the arcs they have fashioned,

They pay us a small ransom
To cull and sell their wares.

Simple sticks and carrots are not enough to wake us.
The damage thus wrought we pay no mind to –

Subdivisions, shopping malls, parking lots.
There are too many people and someone has to pay.
A "B side".
Nov 2016 · 899
after the dirty red day
Erin Suurkoivu Nov 2016
after the ***** red day
her dry tongue bruises
the evening
with burning blue songs
Oct 2016 · 1.1k
morning bleeds in
Erin Suurkoivu Oct 2016
morning bleeds in
then blazes
the sky pierced open by one hot star
night melts away, slinky black cat
Oct 2016 · 1.1k
Sucking Dry Honey
Erin Suurkoivu Oct 2016
a thousand restless fingers
pluck along my nerves
and crawl swarming bees
over my flesh
******* dry honey
and I as a comb am empty
waiting on the waxing moon
to bring in the tide
exposed and littered
on the cracked seabed
lighting beeswax candles
impromptu runway lights
for those aeroplanes
who always fail to land
and wasted afternoons
fade into wasted nights
tossing to and fro
I sleep
under the cupboards instead
Oct 2016 · 989
The Moon
Erin Suurkoivu Oct 2016
Her novelty has faded.
The stars hang back, distant ladies-in-waiting.
The night sky, their palace, is eclipsed by cities
Exploding with neon lights and grotesque trees.
She is too romantic.
Inch by inch, the black sheath is drawn back,
Revealing her smiling crescent.
She keeps a faithful orbit, and stirs
Blue oceans with long white fingers.

In her full sphere
She is a perfect spotlight,
Turning quiet snowy fields into
Illuminated empty stages.
She plays peek-a-boo, uncovering lovers
Gleaming whitely in the mouths
Of beds.
The beauty of entwined limbs
Exposed in her milky radiance.

She is the sun’s soft reflection.
He is never dim, and the black
Silk bag, a sort of corset,
Is ready to devour her again.
The wine is drained from the glass.
Her smile has become a slit.
The single pearl
Cloaked in shadow again.
"The Moon" is a poem from my poetry book, "The Honey in the Lion", available at and Amazon.
Oct 2016 · 372
Erin Suurkoivu Oct 2016
You could never picture me in the pockets of my West Coast.
I flew out of your story and into another, and then
Even into another, always the phoenix.

No longer yours, but his.
No longer his, but mine.
Perhaps I suffered these little deaths to forge a heaven with him.

A king, he’d follow me to the ends of the earth, thrice over.
His queen I’m still too shy to let shine through,
A star stubbornly obscured by cloud.

Though before I complained of rain,
On the Island it never bothered me.
Even in the dead of winter it kept the grass emerald-green.

An emerald city:
Ivy shrouded trees; moss fluorescent.
Our castles were those green giants.

Siamese blue to denim blue.
Betwixt the Spit & Seabroom.
It was all I dreamed and ever wanted.

The only thing missing was the garden, the garden,
Sheltered by walls made of cob.
Or a whole house, the air inside delectable.

Tendril of dream,
Is a cinder girl deserving of bees,
Turning honey into mead, of wild things?

No. Exiled to a foreign land,
A barren land; the ghetto forest.
Those halcyon years now only a memory.

Ridiculous to expect the bald
Rocks to yield to a surfer’s paradise, of
Blue-green ocean. Long hairs cannot thrive under puritans’ eyes.

Green things tremble for sun.
For all the rain, I remember the sun,
Filtering down through the forest canopy,

Upheld by the cathedral’s true pillars
Rather than these thrifty spindles. In reverence of true
Beauty, all is quiet & hushed.

The birth of a princess may bring us back.
Pioneers, we’re still in search of our happy ending,
To live lush in nature’s majesty.

I know the Pacific is still out there
Roaring somewhere,
Crashing itself onto stony beaches.

Mists wreath those mountains.
The drums beat.
That muted boom, my thud of heart.
"Fairytale" can be found in my book, "Camera Obscura", available at and Amazon.
Oct 2016 · 413
Erin Suurkoivu Oct 2016
There is nothing to pinpoint of the strange beast.
Only images,

Blurred and refracted,
Fleeing down a hallway of mirrors.

O maestro of conditions,
It is you they are in love with,

A dark sun unaware of its own orbiting planets.
They are the cause of all of it.

Every comet, every lack
Leaves a trail etched across your sky.

And in their eight eyes
Something seemingly whole becomes distorted,

A piece cut out made separate from the rest.
From this gulf appears a war engine,

A bite of venom,
The desire to **** what they can’t.

Darling of judge and jury,
Blame absolves them of all responsibility.

You are the sole carrier of their weakness.
They fill your skin with their nightmares.

Flesh as fruit
Is strictly poisonous,

Bleaching the sheets of the saints.
Now no more –

Like what was found and then lost.

Like what was married and
Soon divorced.

Still, notoriety is a phantom
Floating in cages,

Star player at a masquerade,
Costumed with your own face.
"Monster" can be found in my poetry collection, "Camera Obscura", available at and Amazon.
Oct 2016 · 865
In My Fantasies
Erin Suurkoivu Oct 2016
comely, maybe
but not beautiful
my features are as round as vowels
and I carry the moon in my hips
I am an unpolished beauty
smooth pebbles resting at the bottom
of a cold clear stream
with an empty purse
my only currency

in this world
I am a shrinking violet
occasionally a rose
caught in your button-loop
long-stemmed red roses
stalk runways
hollywood bombshells
are bubbly as champagne
and full of flesh and light

but *** sans love
is still an empty bathtub
whatever happened to pin-up girls
long cigarette holders
and muted photographs?
I am distorted
in the fish-eye view
of the modern lens

in my fantasies
I am no longer sand and loam
I glow like a tall slim candle
though I am often numb and dumb
and my girls are as absent
as long lost unicorns
I am the bohemian princess

I travel through foreign lands
clothed in exotic costume
a jewelled headdress, and
indian pyjamas coloured sapphire,
turquoise and cayenne-red
my feet are near bare
and my hippie hair
is a mass of blonde curls

I take a sojourn in
southern california
warm desert air
soft against my skin
I surf in the salty sea
held buoyant by the waves
a sunset stains the sky tangerine
the palm trees
black against the orange light
click teasingly in the breeze
"In My Fantasies" can be found in my book "The Honey in the Lion", available at and Amazon.
Oct 2016 · 412
The Way Things Are
Erin Suurkoivu Oct 2016
Could it have happened any differently?
Perhaps. But which fork in the road was it?
Where does the path start to unravel?
A change in the way things are
Would have changed everything else as well.

For all the mistakes bemoaned, lessons
Learned – unless vanity stands in the way –
Or the same error repeated
With different actors playing the same role –
Hero and villain alike.

And the split between people of insignificance and
The people that matter – faces splashed on
Tabloids and magazine covers –
The invisible reduced to mere shadows
Floating on the fringes of light.

Shadows have a way of defining the light.
People have a way of shaping our lives,
Setting in motion our trajectories,
The way banks and boulders guide water in a river –
The wind, a fallen tree.

No absence made a hole in the day of someone
Who was never there.
What’s out of our control – people,
Sequences of events. What’s inevitable –
How we choose to react.
"The Way Things Are" can be found in my poetry book, "Camera Obscura", available at and Amazon.
Oct 2016 · 882
Erin Suurkoivu Oct 2016
Stars of tragedy.
Stories of their untimely demise
Told soberly in newsprint.

Stretching from Africa to Mexico,
Victims of natural disasters, crime,
And of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

What was here is lost.
What was warm is forever gone.
These envelopes that remain can be stamped with anyone’s address.

In the end, it’s all the same
That settles in the melting ***:

Empty shells littering beaches,
Dried-out husks,
Vacant houses.
"Bodies" is a poem from my book, "Camera Obscura", available both at and Amazon.
Oct 2016 · 1.3k
The clocks wind down
Erin Suurkoivu Oct 2016
The clocks wind down,
and soon the Earth will spin
tightly again.

How many passes do we need
to take a conscious breath?
How many paths?

The curtain lowers
before the curtain rises again.
I find myself staring at the red velvet,

the in between.
Oct 2016 · 500
They are/I am
Erin Suurkoivu Oct 2016
They are the sky.
I am the earth.

They are taxi rides.
I am a river rushing.

They are eyes glued to a screen
when their companions long for real conversations.
I am the wind in silence.

They are ****-coloured beer.
I am black coffee and stout.

They are cell phone towers.
I am the stars.

They are poodles on leashes.
I am the lone wolf.

They are elevator rides.
I am off the beaten path.

They have forgotten their roots.
I am plugging in.
Oct 2016 · 544
Erin Suurkoivu Oct 2016
How my disappointments frighten you,
the scalding of hot tea that should be comforting.
Chocolate mint, I’ll tell you this: these are
the virgins I have sacrificed, only to give birth
to two. These are the dreams I have traded
for cold realities. The rain is no longer green
and peaceable. The ocean is a perfect stranger.
Sleep evades me; the pillow is no loving cradle.
I am serenaded nightly by the baby’s wail.
Frozen solid in winter’s cocoon, I long to unfold
my wings. And no matter where I come to stand,
violence permeates every space. There is no escaping
it. It is in the square. It is in the mean people, hard
as glass that does not break, unlike hearts that do.
"Bellyaching" can be found in my second collection of poetry, "Camera Obscura", which can be found on and Amazon.
Oct 2016 · 888
Chemical Triumphant
Erin Suurkoivu Oct 2016

Another space arrives. The newborn cries.
And the destiny determined:
Oven or matchstick.

Descendant of both; inheritor of another:
A machine that dreams itself into being,
Dragging its sleeping subjects after it.

Sustenance of nightmares, the food of what
God is, blood the earth pumps forth.
The plastic legacy is siphoned off,

Its artifacts cheap jewellery:
Enamel glinting white and turquoise.
Flimsy chains that never last,

And yet last forever, the paint flaking off.
So too does the rust on this delicate orchid.
It is an oracle of poisons.


The city burns in its incandescence.
The indelible halo
Of a lime-green candelabra

Makes light of midnight. Our slumber is
Punctured by gunshots and the drone of the

Not a foot but a juggernaut,
Pandora’s box,
Sowing the seeds of your distress.

Fallout marks the potent epoch.
The neon octopus spews it back,
Invisible print on the murderous air.

Where water drinks
No diving bell can bear
The pressure of such fuchsia.
The first poem in my second collection of poetry, Camera Obscura, available at and Amazon.
Oct 2016 · 1.2k
Jennifer's Armour
Erin Suurkoivu Oct 2016

Pink doesn’t play into it, that delicate
petal of perfume & flower stuff.
She abhors it.

Red suits her better.
Red for Fridays & red for Aries.
Red for the blood her dagger could draw.

Her seal of wax is no
rosebud adhered to
fine paper.

Warrior, she escaped its letter.
With Roman candles & Roman sandals,
sword, wand & chariot,

defender of her Eden.
Seashells are her votive gifts, the
stars of her Atlantic.

It is within her reign of Camelot.
At the edge of the Earth,
her kingdom dreams.


Blue maid
a curious ***** in her armour.
But she wouldn’t flinch

if an army of soldiers came crashing in.
They are hunting the witch.
A woman can never have such power.

It is reserved for the patriarchy
to wield at will.
Up it goes.

They can ***** steeples with it.
They are stoking the fires & sharpening
the axe with it.

But threats of torture
don’t make her beg, plead or recant.
She is guilty of nothing.

Even broken on the Catherine Wheel,
Athena still keeps her
bow & quiver intact.
A poem inspired by my friend, Hayley J.
Oct 2016 · 4.1k
Be a voice; not an echo
Erin Suurkoivu Oct 2016
Be a voice; not an echo*

somebody had written on the wall.

People are in love with echoes,

reverberating off walls of canyons,

in love with the sound

sounding off.

Nothing for me, they decide.

Nothing for the girl, lifting her hand

to caress the branches of trees

hanging overhead.

They want the familiar sounds

of girls

sounding off.
Oct 2016 · 999
Threnody for Anne
Erin Suurkoivu Oct 2016
Love has given up.
It was the wrong religion.

And London did not melt into the Thames.
You teetered on the edge of a golden world,

and then fell suddenly—
accused of sortilege, ******, and treason.

And at his pleasure—
or was it mercy?—

Was it for the sake of your seven years,
or perhaps for the little daughter?—

in which flowed the royal blood, spoiled by *** and lineage.
Whatever it was, no matter.

He would spare you the pain
of being burnt at the stake.

Instead, to be executed like royalty—
dispatched by a French swordsman.

The prophecy must have been of little comfort
as your ladies helped prepare you to meet

Death, newly betrothed.
A gown of dark grey damask

floated over a blood-red petticoat.
Your mantle was trimmed with ermine.

Queenly, you stood and addressed those who had come to
watch you. And then you knelt and began to pray, and

quickly and mercifully, the blade
carried out its trajectory.
Oct 2016 · 1.2k
Erin Suurkoivu Oct 2016
Go to sleep, my love.
This ambulance is not for us.

Although, I suppose it could be,
Following dark impulses.

Its sirens screaming of hell,
Tearing pell-mell in a night

Not tinged by blood –
No crime committed for want or violence,

Only help arrived too late
To save us. It would go silent then,

As we have been silenced,
Locked in a terrible tableau.

You, still, curled around my heart,
Me having found for us oblivion.
I poem I wrote four years ago dealing with postpartum depression. Don't worry, nothing became of it.
Oct 2016 · 524
Erin Suurkoivu Oct 2016

must be like

being embraced by

the several loving arms of strangers

all that love

a balm

for all the places

other strangers

have hurt you
Oct 2016 · 3.0k
When I was in her shoes
Erin Suurkoivu Oct 2016
When I was in her shoes,
I could be injured by any word,
If only they could feel what I feel.

I forget what I felt.
I have only cultivated a hard shell,
as I dole out
Oct 2016 · 1000
Erin Suurkoivu Oct 2016
War paint I always found unnecessary:
Gloss for manicured lipstick commercial princesses
Not of my kind.

And though I walk with shield, I am without armour:
Ramparts mere cheekbones,
Bare skin impressionable as snow.

The mark I hated. My characters:
Frail tree rings, exposed to the chill night air.

Gold inlay frozen solid.
The fairly bound dream factory
Lies purple with melancholy.

It’s the world’s bruise. It colours sudden,
Shadowing the other side of the room
Where it paused, rare moth

Lighted upon my dark reflection,
A Mona Lisa dressed in black
And reminiscent of bobby sox.

Beauty without fanfare.
Stuff of woods: we do not glitter.
We don’t call out.

Our tongues are both dumbstruck bells.
Shy rabbits, we fold within ourselves
And sequester our secret pulp.
Dumbstruck is a poem featured in my first collection of poetry, The Honey in the Lion, available at and Amazon.
Oct 2016 · 8.7k
Your moth light
Erin Suurkoivu Oct 2016
Your moth light is supposed to
sustain me.

I am told to discredit
my sun,

its fuel unnecessary,
yours enough.

What do shadows live on,
this light?

I am the keeper of your
caterpillar dreams.
Erin Suurkoivu Sep 2016
Even the stars are doing yoga.
Nothing has always done it,
bending into space.
This evening found me stoking
the fire,
warming by breath alone.
People are such cold little stoves.

Above the sound,
**** and give of ocean,
I heard Ariel sing.
Sep 2016 · 4.5k
Not quite a hurricane
Erin Suurkoivu Sep 2016
Not quite a hurricane
but a wind that still blows,
holding love aloft.
I prefer to be behind the scenes
like god,
observing the audience
through a ***** in the curtain.

I am prophecy self-fulfilled,
but I’ve been before mistaken.

Surprised to learn
that they embrace what they ****.
Sep 2016 · 1.1k
I created the tools
Erin Suurkoivu Sep 2016
I created the tools.

I carved the stone and strung the bow.

I tracked the animal’s prints

across fresh snow.

I took careful aim,

steady, steady,

and then let go.

I brought you meat,

the liver & the heart,

and yet you

feast on crumbs.
Sep 2016 · 1.7k
I become gluttonous
Erin Suurkoivu Sep 2016
I become gluttonous
on solitude,

the way a person luxuriates
in furs and silk,

Italian leather,
diamond rings.

The finer things.

What can possibly be finer
than silence?
Sep 2016 · 1.3k
History forgets violence
Erin Suurkoivu Sep 2016
History forgets violence, cold-
blooded, the extinguishment,
and if not, the raw,
steadied torture.

This tenderness
rose from a river of blood.
Flowers in the garden,
wafting for no particular reason,
except a calling for bees.

Beauty I pick up on,
beauty like a sunset in the field,
blooming poppies,
just another revolution,
a day on Earth.
Sep 2016 · 1.1k
What are these bodies
Erin Suurkoivu Sep 2016
What are these bodies, these
limbs, giving up their sap
and heat? Who decides
who dies, who lives?

What is cut down is
cut down, and
bereft children
grow in their place.
Sep 2016 · 716
No suits are filed
Erin Suurkoivu Sep 2016
No suits are filed
because the lines were blurred.
**** isn’t ****
when there isn’t a clear no.
**** isn’t ****
when you just lie there
and take it.
Erin Suurkoivu Sep 2016
Night lowers its curtain of silence,
my only time to steal away, and
**** the flavour out of every
lovely rind.

It is its lime
mine to enjoy.
If only I could taste it.
Sep 2016 · 878
Sometimes I am more
Erin Suurkoivu Sep 2016
Sometimes I am more

thorn than flower

*but a rose is a rose is a rose
Sep 2016 · 685
Erin Suurkoivu Sep 2016
You are beautiful and I am not.
We are the habits of our forefathers.

We can choose to forget them, let them
Drain away like sand through glass,

Distant dust of history. As much as we try
To remember, desire is stronger than memory.

Sometimes I turn to sculpt soft clay,
Loose and stark in my hands.

And then I abandon the mess. I should keep
My fingertips stained red for effort.

I remember dreaming a vision:
Heroine of my own story,

Walking the grey beach in winter,
Projected far into the future when I might realize it.

Clay does not sculpt itself.
Prayers go unanswered. Here

I dwell in my own lit house,
Multiple yellow lights

Floating in the dark, mirror for
The starry night that I might see.  

We’re the only species with
Wings on our feet. We’ve molded

Paper into something precious.
Currency of kings. Gold origami.

Honeyed words remain my nectar.
Rome is a daylong process that is for ever.

To shape is a practice
Known by time and being,

That I may become a living embodiment.
That I might find grace in a raised arm, a bent leg.

That I might see myself through a filter of love.
That I might remember there are no

That we are beautiful for our very selves.
From my poetry collection, Camera Obscura, available at and Amazon.
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