Elli had never thought that the walls were strange.  Really, she didn’t think of them as walls precisely; they simply marked where her world ended.  After all, they had always been there, looming grayishly about one hundred feet from her back door.  Occasionally, strange shapes would appear at the top of the wall, silhouetted by bright lights so that she could never say what they looked like.  The sky was a perfect circle of blue or gray, depending on the weather, and it hung rather flatly overhead.  Elli’s house had pristine white walls with a red tile roof, exactly like the other four houses in her little slice of existence.  There was one other child besides Elli, but he was a baby who barely spoke.  

Not that anyone else said much either.  The adults seemed happy enough she supposed and treated her with kindness, but they all looked at each other knowingly, with resignation.  

Elli couldn’t understand why that was so; they had everything they needed here: food, water, clothing, each other.  The weather was even cooperative for the most part, raining just often enough to keep the trees and flowers alive, and never getting cold enough to warrant anything heavier than a long-sleeved shirt.

She had to admit, though, it did get a little boring occasionally.  But, just as soon as she thought she would cry with boredom, a new toy would appear, or a new type of flower for her to discover.  When she asked her mother where these things came from, she would go tight-lipped, then relax, and say gently that they were gifts from Above.

What ‘Above’ was, precisely, no one could (or would) tell her.  So she made it up.
Elli thought that Above was quite mysterious, but it must be benevolent because it gave her so many gifts.  She would talk to Above sometimes, but it never answered; it only came with more presents when she had tired of the old.  Often, Above’s presents to Elli were in the form new discoveries, and very occasionally in the form of an actual toy.

One day, Above gave Elli a mysterious gift: a sketchbook and three pencils.  She was unsure what to do with them at first, but after some experimentation she discovered that one end of the pencil made a mark, and the other end could make the mark disappear.  That discovery alone delighted her, and for a while, she busied herself simply with the process of marking and erasing.

Next, Elli started to put the marks together in ways that pleased her, and eventually filled the entire sketchbook with abstract drawings.  She thought she would erase them all and start over the next day, but when she woke up that morning, another sketchbook and three new pencils were stacked on top of the old.  She squealed with glee.

Elli took the sketchbook out to her favorite tree that day, and as she sat in its shade, it occurred to her that she might be able to replicate what she saw around her on her paper.  
Elli began to draw.  

She explored everywhere for things to draw, and as she followed the curve of the concrete wall late that afternoon, she saw a strange object on the ground, half hidden by a large bush.

Bending down to take a closer look, she noticed that whatever the object was, it was flush with the ground and seemed to have space below it.  Elli thought that was odd; she had always assumed the ground was utterly solid, and to find that there was a seemingly endless hole underneath was disconcerting.  She set her sketchbook and pencils down and reached out for the object.

It was covered in a reddish dust that came off on her fingers.  She grabbed the grate and pulled a bit.  It rattled invitingly.  Acting on impulse, Elli grabbed the cover with both hands and heaved; it was heavy, but not unmanageable, and she soon had it off and found herself staring down a dark tube.  She knelt down, stuck her head in, and shouted.  The echo of her shout leapt away down the tunnel.

Elli backed away from the hole and sat down, contemplating her discovery.  One thing was certain: her little world was not as little as she had thought.

Eventually, Elli decided that the peculiar hole would have to wait.  She was getting hungry, and the thought of her mother’s cooking enticed her.  So, with some effort, Elli pulled the cover back over the hole and dusted her hands.  It would be waiting for her to explore tomorrow.

The next morning, Elli raced out to the hole and dragged the off the cover.  Again, she shouted and listened to the echo of her voice leave her behind.  

She wondered where the echo went.

Finally, curiosity got the better of her, and dragging her sketchbook and pencils with her, she lowered herself into the darkness.  

As her feet touched the bottom, she noticed that the hole had become tall enough for her to stand in.  Looking up, she realized that she would not be able to go back that way. She shook off that thought, and turned her face to the darkness.

The tunnel was damp, so Elli slid her sketchbook protectively under the front of her shirt.  The further she got from her entry point, the darker it became, until she could no longer see anything.  

For the first time in her life, Ellie knew fear.  

She thought of her friend, Above.

I don’t like this; I really don’t like this, Elli said to Above in the darkness.  Can you hear me, Above?  I’d like a gift to help me get out of here.  Please?

No answer came, but Elli knew that that was what would happen.  Above never spoke to her.  She felt wetness well up in her eyes, felt it trail down her face, and touched it with her fingertips.  Her fear abated a little as she stood in the darkness and nothing extraordinary happened.  Elli sniffed.

Picking up her courage, she continued forward in the darkness, feeling her way along the damp walls of the tunnel.  Suddenly, she heard a loud scraping noise overhead.  She jumped back, stumbled over her feet, and dropped her sketchbook in a puddle.  A sliver of light appeared in the ceiling, widening as the scraping noise continued.  Elli looked up, frozen, fear returning vengefully.  Light filled her section of tunnel.  She looked up, blinking at its brightness.  

A strangely elongated hand appeared, silhouetted against the light, reaching out for her.  Elli gasped.  It’s all right, the hand said, I will help you.  I am here to get you out of the tunnel.  Elli didn’t move.  Another strange hand appeared, and together, they reached for her, grasped her, and hauled her out of the darkness.  

Elli looked at the owner of the hands, into a face entirely unlike any she had seen before; the eyes were much too large, and the irises were an iridescent purple.  It didn’t have a nose, and its mouth was decidedly small.  It looked upon her with what she could only fathom was worry and concern.  There were others, standing, watching.

Who are you? Elli asked.
We are Above, it said.
And Elli knew nothing at all.

slow steel sword
room of death
stand and die and wait
blissful truth
sees sunlight
quite elegant pain
cut.  ask.  remember.
dare.

For a while, we put our problems in a box in the attic.
We'd visit, now and again, to deposit an annoyance or two.
But then we started adding bigger problems, and space became tight.
We bought a trunk.  It was cedar, designed to keep the moths (and our consciousness) out.

One day you went up there, and discovered I'd taken up nearly the whole trunk
with a gray sweater, full of holes, coming undone at the seams.
You wanted to know how it got there— you'd never seen it before.
I didn't exactly remember putting it there, at least not all at once.  
It would explain its tattered nature.
You told me to just get rid of it.  It's all worn out, you said.  What's the use keeping it?
I told you I was still working on finding all of the pieces.
You acquiesced.  You usually do.

For a while, the trunk was all we needed.
I left the house and came back with more pieces for that gray sweater.
It eventually became more of a blanket, but the trunk still kept it in, though the wool
would threaten to spill out in tufts whenever I opened the lid.

Eventually, it overflowed the trunk, creeping out onto the floor, down the attic steps.  Into the house.
You asked if I'd found all the pieces yet.
No, I haven't.  The bigger it gets, the more holes it sprouts.
I start to wonder if I've been making new holes to patch old ones, taking thread from the seams,
and leaving the edges ragged, fraying.
I'm fraying.
And neither one of us is good at sewing.

In fidelity sleeping
a tremulous void
that circumvents
the face of lies.
I’ll tarry here,
where the room
drips madness
thick like congealing
blood in the rain.
And the walls separate
twisting in deception
for my mind unbound
scathed in trembling coals
My blood
I am the madness
Dripping.

Lean into me
eyes wild
I’ll watch lust
dance at the surface
when—

Lean into me
tear trails
etched in dust
I’ll hold on
until—

Lean into me
lips feverish
embrace must
last unbroken
but—

Lean into me
and feel
ourselves rust
as rain drips down
until—

Lean into me
for now
we can trust
we’ll never know
when—

until—

but—

—

I look into the box
Her fabric folds of flowers are blue,
mine are pink and periwinkle, I’m wearing lace socks.
Mother stands behind me.
She is the only person-shape I understand

I stand in the doorway
A hand on my shoulder
Lying in bed, she beckons me
She’s not wearing her wig today.
Gently pushes a teddy bear into my hands.
From the Queen Elizabeth II.
Later, person-shapes
I don’t understand yet
but I see her sift out the chimney

Scattering her to the sea lapping my feet
My mother, her sisters watch the sun sink
drink caipirinhas

My first glass of champagne

A neighbor finds her at the bottom of the stairs
They do an autopsy
—painkillers—
Gracie’s eyes are dead too.
We bring flowers, despite allergies
because it’s convention.
First time I am also a person-shape.

A repeat.
She lies there, no wig.
A few hairs on the plush pillow.
Another box.
More flowers.
This time I lose shape altogether.

This one’s farther away
more peaceful
I don’t know him very well
I hover outside their grief this time.

A teacher.  My teacher.
Healthy.
Sometimes it surprises you:
he doesn’t look real—
only person-shaped.

But then, they never do.

Look down— broken
Glass reflects an image in pieces,
Jagged blue edges
Perpendicular
To obsidian gravel thick with
Tar.
Put them together,
They will never fit
Not completely, some pieces
Disintegrated
Into time, where memories are
Made.
Not for you, nor me,
Anyone can see
Through the shards
Strewn
Like no one cared, under the wheels
Of a car
Going, going…
Nowhere.

Your breath froze
long before I could hold you again,
Your pressed flower skin
fragile as a moth.
And when I looked down at you,
your eyes would not meet mine...
And when my lips felt the caress of your hand,
it was only heavy and cold.

I'm waving my arms like people do
when they've leaned too far out over the edge,
and a helpful branch is just out of reach.

You've stretched out calmly, soaking the sun,
looking at me with your head cocked
and wondering why I won't come sit down.

Sometimes I feel as if I've missed the train,
even though my ticket says otherwise.

Its angular writing ought to puncture the dream,
yet I find myself staring the other way down the tracks.

So I walk down the platform until it comes to an end,
wondering what destination might have been.

I lick my lips in anticipation
as my eyes wander
up and down your length

And I lean forward
run my tongue just around
the edge to sample your flavor—

Dulce de leche ice cream cone,
you will forever be my favorite.

Fist the sheets
eyes wide open
scream
wild crimson
rushes
scatters
can’t breathe—

I never liked dolls.
Their hard, impersonal faces were immovable,
Their distant, glass eyes fixed somewhere past me.
Only their frail hair yielded to touch,
But it collected dust more quickly.

Fading memories disperse
like ***** rags yanked from the clothesline
in a hot dry gust.

The pins that held the dusty garments
dangle upside down,
their rusty hinges
no longer stain the cloth,
but the line that memories left behind.

How dare you!  How dare you!
Club night tequila margherita stains
and the loose thread
you yanked
when you rubbed your
sweaty body all over
some ***** stranger
on the dark dance floor.
Strobe lights pulsing
with your libido
until he sloshed beer
down your front
when a drunken brawler
stumbled into the crowd
Oh, I’m sure HE
apologized
such a considerate guy
to take home
for mom to find
you in bed with
in the morning.
Thanks for your
consideration.

I feel like I should cry
But I have no tears left for you
Just a burning angry pain
That’s left me scarred
In spite of new.

No tears for you anymore
Life’s pathways tend to change
And I guess what’s here
Today and yesterday
Doesn’t always weather
Tomorrow’s rain.

I have no tears for you and
Sometimes the faces that we see
Are just lacquered on humanity
Shallow as the sunlight
Patterns dancing on the leaves.

To appreciate the lives we live
We’ll have to learn to die
And to understand the ways of love
We must stop wondering, why?

We find we fall together
We’ll go the same **** way
Our march toward eternity
As life gradually fades.

So we find someone to walk with
Ease the path and time
Learn the ways of love and
Light the darkness in our minds.

Our hands are under the table
that subterranean space where
we can speak without talking
and still mind our own tasks

Our separate screens are reflected
in our eyes, and we’re being diligent
as your thumb slowly traces
the contour of my palm

I breathe in and bite my lip
and I don’t know if it’s because
I’m considering a question on my screen
or you just ran your fingers through mine

I wonder if you're aware of
your claim on my current composure
the gentle pressure of your hand increases
and I carefully control my breath

I'm somehow still checking answers
and your reading’s still steady and thorough
our eyes haven’t wavered from our work
though your hands are making me want

This morning I lit a small candle by my bedside
to remember my promises—

I left, came back to do my hair
and shook the can of hairspray that holds me together—

When he looked at her,
all he saw
was She,
She.
Anatomy as definition.
When she rose up
and the world saw Her,
all the world asked
wanted to know
were Her questions
and anatomically
related probes.
They saw Her, like he did.
And when he rose up,
the world saw him
they clamored to know
his accomplishments
his strategies
his stances
but nothing about Him.
There were no His questions.
Just questions.
Because he was a person, not He,
and she was not;
she was She.

Black ribbon
unfolds
before her
yet murky eyes
see naught
from floating
depthless void
silver light depart

In the wake of wistful winds
Blue fog shuffles and descends
Depresses graying grass into darker earth
And burdens arthritic joints of trees
Whose auburn graces
Suppressed
By deepening mist

Cries of tarnished gold
Wilt, brief petals sigh away their lives
Unheeded beauty pushed aside

Interior silence
Resounds
Reverberates
Through thin vessel walls.
How this heart has been betrayed
By the body
Whose mind let go nobility.
And refined the slithering ideas
Of duplicity
Interior silence
Hollow, hallow
Treasonous
To the consciousness of desire.
What happens
When the blood betrays
The very heart that pumps it
Through the mind?

Lift—
Let it go
Watch it sail
flame arcing
as it turns
and falls
another rises
as I catch—
toss—
release—
light dances
on the faces
in the crowd
holding breath—
heat licks
at my hands
but I
haven't felt
the burn—
the torches
are long
enough
yet—

Temptation,
laugh at me—
we’ve been here before
together
this is the part where
you slide your hands down my sides
and whisper—
Sweet Nothings
about how we could
bend and twist
and it sounds like
such a rush
until I remember how
last time you just
made me
a Gordian Knot
that I had to cut up
from sheer frustration—
But I threw out
the scissors when I was done
and I really
don’t want
to shred this one apart
with my teeth—

That would hurt,
you know.

The sounds of my footsteps were swallowed in dusty silence
Until chimes came through, shaken by the wind
Into vibrant chords and intricate melodies.

The last vestiges of autumn sifted through the air
Whose breath bore tints of frost that subtly twisted
Into my lips to tinge them blue.

The fading sun cast a symphony of golden tongues
Across misty ridges into shaded ravines
As the sliver moon beckoned night and winter.

She was effervescent, they told me.
When she took her mask off—
Her composed features would crack
And a glow came from underneath
Through the fissures
When she took her mask off—
The pure, white shell would fall away
And reveal golden glory,
The unseen strength that surged forth
When she took her mask off—

She stares down through the open window;
sheer ragged curtains flap gently inward,
casting thin moon shadows on linoleum.

Her bare toe traces the square pattern habitually,
with the slow sensuous movement
of a crooning night melody.

She watches the dark contour of a man in the street,
barely illuminated by the dimming lamp;
watches as he turns and clicks down cracked pavement.

Her brown chest constricts, sigh persuaded forth,
and deep eyes follow his swaying walk
as hope fades.

In her hand is a reflection of the moon on metal,
curved to the shape of the barrel;
her finger strokes the trigger.

She raises her hand, pulls;
the melody reverberates on the window panes
an unforgiving song, an irreversible song.

She stares down through the open window;
sheer ragged curtains flap gently inward,
casting thin moon shadows on linoleum.

A darkness surrounds them, dripping rhythmically
a metronome for the songs of silence.
Their voices shadows of sorrow, grating softly
Glass carefully crushed under the weight of loss.

Their melody rises and falls with the tide
Of new souls seeping into the drip, drip, dripping
Metronome for the songs of silence,
To add their sketchy voices to the throng.

Cream and Red striations
wind along the wall
In places dirt obscures them
still I heed their call
to follow twisting passages
unending canyon hall—

Yet parched map lines waver
heat bends and turns the air
here I am left breathless
and thirsty in my stare.

purple skies,
moonlit fog dances
silhouette trees
she stands, poised
cliff’s edge,
dropping
whipped
on silver breeze
turns her face,
soul flying
quiet, alabaster disc
reflected—
still waters
she steps away
the air
serenely flashing
sliding from the sky
moon twin
disturbing.

I can feel us on the edge here
this narrow ridge we’re hiking
it’s thin enough in places
that I’m nearly certain we’ll
topple down the side

But we haven’t yet and
it could be your acrobatics
or mine
that’s got us still balancing
in an act a professional
tightrope walker
would balk at

We’re daring though
and the view from up here
so far is breathtaking
and the thrill of chill wind
against our faces
exhilarating

The peak not yet in sight
shrouded in soft white fog
that was forecast to disappear
by noon
instead it’s rolling down the side
thickening and reaching
for us

Our view goes white with gray
eddies loosely defined
interludes of curling air
the pebbled ground slowly fading
so we clasp our hands together
it’s less stable but
comforting
as the mist swirls between us

Soon there’s nothing
no outline
the last wisp of your hair
is gently consumed
into this vaporous world
where only a touch
obstructs
surreal isolation

I can see into the past,
having lived
enough to watch ages
crawl by.
I have watched you stumble
and fall
and vanish
only to return
again,
each time in greater numbers.
You infest this world,
mindlessly exhaust
all that has been bestowed
upon you.
Yet
you continue, forthcoming
spilling over
the borders of your minds:
here,
we have no borders
that clash
and ****** us into war.
And you—
you take advantage
of our peace
to drain away our lives,
**** them down
expel them carelessly,
seeking dominion.
Tell me
Tell us
over whom will you rule
when none of us are left?

You're beautiful, we want you with us,
they chorus, pale hands grasping,
their ghostly holograms of consciousness
project across a network of artificial minds

Desperate to materialize,
and turn their ephemeral bodies
into undulating flesh,

They graze their fingers across my vision
trailing electrons in their wake
that insistently whisper, Make us Real.

words aren't an end
just a means and a way
to tell all the things
one never could say
blacken the pages
with ink from the soul
nobody is pure
light to behold

You've really got me
turned around
left is right
and up is down

It's quite a sight
to see me
as I walk upon
the ceiling

Cornering rounds
instead of
rounding corners
tripping over
ill-placed dormers

It's even more
confusing when
the world halts
this dizzy spin

and reality comes
crashing down
I find myself in
a wedding gown

its corset is
much too tight
the color fair
far too light
for I'm no
****** bride

but I cannot move
to search for
the elusive exit door
instead I'll stare
enraptured
with the carpet
patterned floor.

She looked down at her feet with blue eyes,
Her hair bouncing commercially.
Pink straps lashed down each delicate foot;
The rhinestones at the ankle strap flashed gaudily,
Beckoning other girls to follow those feet anywhere.

She looked at the clerk with blue eyes.
A fashionable smile marred her face briefly,
As she blinked down at the person who, before,
Had been taller than she.
Teeth glinted to match the stones on the shoes,
Which she carefully removed from her feet,
And handed to the clerk.

She looked into her purse with blue eyes,
And pulled from it with vacation brown hands,
A wallet, in which was placed her father’s credit card.
She drew the card out of the leather pocket,
Using a natural, swift motion,
And placed it on the efficient mall counter.

the world is thinly crystalline
a fair veneer of snow
blurs forest arcs to silver
in the distance up a hill
a small girl stands
crimson banner
waving in her hands

no footprints
come or go

I opened the car door, tossed my bag in
I was just about to slip inside when
An older man, 60 I might guess
limping down the sidewalk paused to ask:

"St. Mary's Hospital?"

My head snapped up
"What?" I asked.

"St. Mary's Hospital.  Is it this way?"

I frowned
"Yes," I replied.

"Do you know how much farther?"

"About half a mile.  Why?"

He raised his hand up, wrapped in white
red stain seeping through

My breath caught

"I've cut my finger, and I think I may need stitches."
Then he turned and limped away

"Wait," I called.  "Are you sure you'll be alright?"

He nodded, hardly turning around.

I asked again, "Are you sure?"
Should I offer him a ride?
It's only a minute out of my way.

He didn't turn or nod then, just continued on
His steps were slow, erratic, but determined
Should I offer him a ride?
I watched his back recede

Should I offer him a ride?

I could no longer hear his shuffling feet

Should I offer him a ride?

Should I offer him a ride?

I didn't.  I got in my car and left.  And cried.  
Because I wouldn't offer an old hurt man a ride.

rhythm presses against my skin
grips my hips along with your hands
our eyes lock and we dip
with music's command

as bass binds our bodies
attunes my curves and your long lines
steps mesh and we twist with
the riff of a Gibson

that licks the sweat right off our skin
scales our spines and pins our lips
together in one electric rush
voltage high and just enough

as we fling this dance
into unbound lust
and spark cadenzas
in our bodies' crush

Thunderheads collide, shake the sky
Disturb solidity and sleep.

Lightning rends the sea,
A division, a decision

To walk across unscathed—
To lose yourself in waters unknown

For blissful or torturous life of your heart
that lies drying and dying on the sand.

There were times when
your voice was like
smooth soothing thunder
it rolled across my skin
made me shiver
as we slid under our sheets—

Other times we had
lightning in our eyes
that sparked
crackled
flared
lit up the room
always in harsh relief
tension allowed to build—

sheets became
torrents
sluicing over our skin
until we were tangled
in damp heat
mist rising off our bodies
and a gleam of sunlight
chose that moment to
refract—

silver stars fall
in a lilting dream
perfected symmetry
of six
like glass
poised to shatter
softly
each little death
at the caress
in the limbs of a tree.

Run your fingers over my chest
pick apart my shirt, thread by thread
and crush the fibers between your fingers
til you've laid my skin bare
Let your frigid breath caress my *******
and perk my ******* in parody of arousal

Then bring that silver blade you've been twirling
idly in your elegant hands,
trace its sharpened edge from my neck to my heart
Leave a stark line of red in your wake,
for it tells me that reality is here,
pinned under your gaze

You have no need for restraints, no cuffs of shining steel,
your piercing eyes and the bow of your lips
are enough to keep me perfectly still
even as you slide your blade between my ribs and twist
like a rusted key in a lock
my bones slide apart

Rivulets of red run down my pale skin,
drawing mockeries of words I can't express
between my shallow, gasping, shuddering breaths
Watch my heart beating in my open chest,
and sink your fingers in around the arteries
let my blood flow over your hand

Squeeze hard.

Smooth sun slides across the cerulean sky
And reaching trees drip gleaming arias
Into wilting snow.
Tears of winter course down channeled trunks
As snaring frost recedes into time
Memory still aglow.

They bustle, hustle
like ants in a box,
going nowhere, nowhere,
pop up to my counter top
from their semi-ordered line

I take their orders, same as last time:
Venti-turtle-soy-sugarfree-latte-extrafoam-nowhippedcream
a­nd I swipe their plastic cards through my machine.
What a dream, a dream.

Chatter, swipe, shout, sign-here-please
And scatter on out with marginal ease—
hands full of coffee cups, bagels, cream cheese
Calling a boss, late again (I laugh,
I’ve been here since six,
and they think they’ve got a tough schedule to keep?)

When it’s finally time, I take my break,
stare at the syrups, the powders, the cakes,
and pour my coffee black
with nothing that’s fake.

Depth beyond
edges of the
Universe
Core of light
demure yet
it gently
illuminates
fabric folds,
blows away
the dust moats
surround my
tapestry
rippled though
time because you
added a
beautiful
stitch.

The pillars of society are strong, we think;
Built out of stone of what we deem
Simple
Basic
Principals.

Stones

Are strong, we think;
But stones can be broken if you try,
And some are not as strong as others, however,
Simple
Basic
Principals

Should be stronger than the strongest

Stones

Yet
Stones, and
Simple
Basic
Principles
Have been warped, tilted, and broken
Over time, trials, tribulations
The earthquakes of centuries have changed

The face of the earth and exposed new

Stones

And covered old ones, but
Sometimes, old ones are dug up, hailed
As fossils, and put into museums to demonstrate
Simple
Basic
Principles

And teach the young
How to form their plastic bodies to stones,
Even if the stones are unwashed,
Fresh from the ground
*****

Stones

Brown and gray
Simple
Basic
Principles
That a child sometimes finds to be
Hollow in the middle.

—That 'Oh ****' moment
right as you catch your toe
on the crack in the sidewalk—

—the ground rushing up
no matter how awesome
your impression of a windmill—

—and for some godforsaken reason
that ***** street-water puddle
is always there to 'catch' you—

—and your bag of groceries.

Anesthesia seeps into me and settles
like plaque into my arteries
where it converses with my blood.
I let its ugly yellow fingers swagger through,
waving their malicious banners
proclaiming my surrender.

My lungs breathe chafing dust
that conspires
and leaves me suffocating
under the silent sands of guilt
that build up into graceful dunes.

My mind loves the desert in my lungs
despite the lifeless contours;
it is far away, removed and sees
a sweeping landscape, patterned
by the winds, my rattling breath.

But my heart lives next door
to that forsaken terrain.
It feels the pain of the parched *****,
gone unacknowledged by my mind.
It feels the lecherous caress
of the ugly yellow fingers
that violate my blood,
stroking, disgustingly, inside my veins.

Still my mind remains
Doorless
Windowless
Refusing to see.
Serenely smooth, impenetrable Reason.

My heart has no hands
to hold a hammer or a sword.

Yet Your tongue is a sword,
Your words a hammer of consciousness,
Your expression the oil to reignite
shimmering embers buried under ashes.

My mind’s shield becomes an eggshell—
it shatters, flinging shards away,
letting the newly lit inferno roar
through every capillary, burning away
the ugly yellow fingers.

Winds from within gust through my lungs,
force the desert from my chest.
The sand rends my throat and lips
in its storm of escape,
and the blissful tears that rain from my eyes
quench my arid lungs.

The fire recedes into my heart, where it burns
white-hot and pure—
My eternal sun that gleams within,
to You, I surrender.

I get the impression
that you like me the way you like dessert:

praising my appearance, presentation,
eyeing a swirl of cream,
licking your lips at the sparkle of glacé

Anticipation.

When you cradle me gently
in the curve of your silver spoon:

your tongue samples my sweet delight,
fleeting flavors hold your senses enraptured
the lingering aftertaste beckons

More.

Your silver spoon scrapes
the bottom of the glass bowl:

melted cream pools languidly,
my last sweet aftertaste slips from your tongue
while you do the dishes.