In the waist high soy fields
We laugh like choking dogs
On the image of the hand that yields
So we worship in restless monologues

In the ice cold bite of the frozen lake
We encounter the spirit of naught
Naught which has given, naught that we will take
And the holler seems farther with every thought

I am a soul sick woman in the body of a child
A child with formlessness untoward
I wish to run as fast as the stallions, bucking wild
But I’m stuck here in the yard

When you push your eyes to the horizon
Do you feel that stirring, longing, yearning
Deep and tender heartless feeling
Leaves the mind inside the body reeling
When you tip your face up to the endless sun
Do you feel that wars inside we only narrowly won
The civil conflict, the trenches, blood in buckets subdued
The maladapted, anachronistic, bad attitude
I am forgiven for all my double-hearted shame
Tell me, if you can, what is my name

The sleep of the sword does not answer my call
Sweet Jezebel sways with the winds of the fall
While the Goosegrass loudly beckons, singing to stay
The Foxgloves, they whisper “one day, one day”.

I’m longing to be respectfully flame-farewelled
But the Lion’s Tooth sees that my dreams are dispelled
In the sweet summer madness, my Devil’s Milk pride
Shrivels and dies; looks like Ring-a-Bells lied

With a wave of my hand the swan of blood lands,
And the spear-din begins
With a noble glance the troops advance
Chieftains or kings, breakers of rings

The winter begs death and the is-ness of song
My soft sophomania playing along
A hymn on the psaltery drifts for a dime
Of seven sweet maidens missing in time

Tell me plainly, why does the spring make me ill?
Pale, shaking hands cling to the old timbrel.
A melodic pain, the kind honey can’t draw out.
And the whispering doubt, **** as sauerkraut

With a wave of my hand the swan of blood lands,
And the spear-din begins
With a noble glance the troops advance
Chieftains or kings, breakers of rings

You were never cautious with your art,
I was always careful with my heart
Unless I poured it out like a dove
Are you mourning me from heaven above

I am mourning you from hell below
I guess that freedom was not the way to go
And the old dried herbs sing from above my grave
I’ve never behaved, I’ve never been brave

With a wave of my hand I watched your blood land
On my ***** kitchen floor
Without a chance, in a frightened stance
No longer poor, I walked out the door
The final test, was it for the best?
No belt hook swings, pale, wicked things
My freedom came at the price of the flame

Farewell my lover,
Fare thee well.

Something devilish
Antlers In The Churchyard,
your home is a forest of mirrors
voices clinging to shapes in the darkness
Swallow down the warmth
As it drips from your mouth you will mourn
Cry for your mother,
Who will touch you now?
No skin on your fingers
No leaves on your branches
The burn of rain in your bloodstream
The scream of wind in your endless thoughts
You are a God in a place you don't belong
something old among the concrete
long since buried
They locked you up
But you will be fed

The silence crosses distances
and hits something in the fear of my heart
There is nothing worse than forgetting
The mind removes that which it can no longer hold
My name is fresh upon your lips
and yet I have never heard you speak it
My name is fresh upon your lips
though it has been uttered with scorn
My name is fresh upon your lips
love, for once, a flavor sweet and welcome
Our distance has always been great
Our distance grows farther still
For now, you are far away
But when you come back, will you still love me?

If you count the cracks
I will open my mouth for you
The injury
The injury,
falsely gaping
it doesn't fit and you count again
Look at my fingers
Stroke the edges
Feel the curves
How wrong can it be?
You press a hand to what's wrong
You hold my problems
Apples and Oranges
What if neither was real?
The inside is flesh
It yields
It yields
But if I do not ask you to count
my mouth will never have a use
Swallow my tongue for me
You put me in a place, but it isn't mine
Whose body is this?

It’s been seven years and I still don’t think I’ve processed it
For most of my young life I had no mother
For most of my young life I had no father
There was only her, mother of my mother
A sharp woman with hands like sharpened scissors
Counsel and Care, the altar I was made to pray at
Her touch was soft unless it was hard, and hard unless it was soft
Like salt tossed over her shoulder,
Like warm potatoes in the sun
Like a bowl of cheerios before the bus comes
We prayed the rosary every morning
And I told her about my gods and myths
I told her about the rocks and crystals
And I cried about numbers
We prayed the rosary every morning, and I couldn’t bring myself to mind
We went to church on Sundays, and I sang as loud as I wanted
We picked out melons at the grocery store and ate them by the pool

It’s been seven years, and I miss her
And I will miss her
I’ll cry when I hear Que Sera Sera
I’ll eat saltines and still think to myself they aren’t that good
I’ll keep my rosary and sometimes I will pray
I will miss her
And I can only hope to be like her someday
And I hope that she is proud

Crow looked at Vulture
Asked, "Why do you bring death?"
Vulture looked at Crow
Said, "For the reason misfortune is your burden to bear"
Crow looked at Vulture
Asked, "And why must you taste blood?"
Vulture looked at Crow
Said, "For the reason your eyes catch the sunlight"
Crow looked at Vulture
Asked, "And why must we remain this way?"
Vulture looked at Crow
And he looked at Crow
And Crow looked back
And Vulture said, "We have known nothing more"
And Crow looked back
"Then we must learn"
"Then we must learn"