She lies in the grass of a strange land
hands folded
across her bare chest
a sunflower
locked in death’s rigid embrace.
Her body’s overflowing
with heaps of wildflowers
with roots that burrow deep
into her flesh
in anticipation
of its return to dust.
Her momma called the cops,
her baby’s been gone far too long
won’t come home
won’t answer the phone
but they’ll never find a city girl here
lying dead in the Montana prairie,
not under all those
heaps of wildflowers
to mask the smell.
It’s almost peaceful
on this lukewarm afternoon
just as the photographer’s eyes
cloud with an emotion that is
almost remorse
as he drops the match
and the tips of the grass
above her face
sway and tickle the big blue sky
until it cries ashes.

Subtlety consumes me this day,
the effect of warm coals slowly burning
a hole through me while I remain
unaware of their beautiful damage because of their
lack of violence
I am still exhaling smoke
in the form of nervous syllables
happy,
for once,
that I have not received a knife’s blow
in the back when I least expected it
but instead a gentle demise
slowly falling,
falling,
falling out of my mind
and for the first time
I give my full surrender,
give my heart
to rest upon the embers.

Who am I to blame for this embargo on words
so suddenly placed in my throat
it chokes me
stifling much needed expression even as my fingers jump
from strings to keys
from pen to soundless paper
life has number and pitch
but no definable English syllables or even enunciations
I am at a loss.
For years the ability to relate chaos and joy
to little notebooks and folders has been an escape
but it is a trap in itself
when there are no words to describe
that which I feel.
Breathless
I am breathless as I pace
aching to turn back the hands of the clock
and regain lost time
lost life wasted when I was a child playing a role
playing a game
breathless is the sensation
that feeds the euphoria of dreaming with eyes wide open
and never needing to wake up to reality
because they have become one and the same
I may be without words
but for better or worse I am chained to these hands
and this heart which can learn
to speak without a sound.

Every day I bare my soul
I must suspend my disbelief,
eradicate the need for affirmation
behind my every breath
so I can sing that
yes, I am alive and well
and worthy of something,
though I know not what.
These words must be trained
to spring from the shadows
unafraid to shout to the puppetmaster
their disavowal of its ownership
because they speak the truth,
the treasonous truth
from which I try to hide
but cannot
because they must be heard.
They will be heard
because for the first time
in these years of existence
I have the courage to declare that
yes, I am alive and well
and worthy of something,
though I know not what,
and still you are here.