shh, let me tell you how this story goes in this silence as powerful as the one after the first atomic bomb, in this space of crushed illusions. you are alone, I know you are. that was counter therapeutic, that lack of hope when grandma struggled with the shovel against the frozen earth so early in the morning. it was besides the point that grandpa from the other chapter was playing violin outside, on the porch of this house of tears while a childlike woman swallowed the sunset in her frightened eyes. like the opposite of a hermit.
shh, there can be so little love, you know, only broken petty gestures, meaningless in any direction the wind would blow. yes, it’s no good to make love in the quietness of lavender fields. too many mothers have turned on the other side in their slumber sheets.
you know it’s been years since words are tempting to surface the horizon of events, it’s pure physics. something will remain  forever hidden behind the horizon, they say, who count the miracles of day. shh let’s not disturb now the other chambers of thought, I'll write to you each day like a child forgotten outside to play.
they are coming inside, I’ll put you somewhere in the preformed space, I’ll cram you somewhere into the smallest place. see you in the morning with the first breath.  you have to do this alone, redefining these tears, no one will do it for you.
our bodies link us together, do they know? I’ll just keep writing to you. mothers and daughters are bonded by scarfs when fathers just look aside. you are a wall breaker, this is what you are. the world cannot bear metaphors when dawn gets stifled by false pretence. I’ll feed you with words as long as necessary, till the air becomes more clear in the morning. some things can be born only by whispers.

We came here to fly
in the height of our breath
don’t let the plight block the sun
I listened to my hands till silence came
staccato in my words
your flight is my sea of stories

I settle not into sight
tomorrow is a palimpsest
with its wise owls, the birds of fear
while sensuality is pouring down the windows
like rain in December
and there is something breathing,
a self-absorbed flower of flesh
and the tenderness of someone
to carry the “winelight”
for the flamingo me

your lips taste like morning.
I am redrawing  the horizon inside
for you to bring your pulse
in flight in case you might

What if love was invented by mothers?
I have to ask

Night fades, an awakening dawn,
Awaken by the same song bird
Singing from the soul, bittersweet memories heard
A window ledge looking out to the grand oak trees upon the lawn,
Squirrels playful in flight, shaken autumnal leaves; magenta & fawn
A lowly stray cat jumps, chases leaves that swirl, a baby bird at first flight, sight blurred
The cat pounces, a thief to his prey he captures, flees out of sight; the girl watches without a word
A cacophony of deafening sounds force their noise up the narrow stairwell, the song bird is gone

Pounding feet; her father he frightens the song bird far far away, a silence forms,
In her nightdress the girl she grabs the soft torn eared teddy,
Her tiny feet silently tiptoe, she lays flat on the old dusty wooden floor:
Hiding under the four poster bed, her fearful breaths deep & heady
Her heart misshaped as trampled by his feet, her soul mourns
Filled with the same fear she faces each & every day, all that remains is the locking of her bedroom door.

© Sia Jane

to get my hands ***** with miracle,
to be fed with unknown, quietness, outburst of laughter
to carry me like a bridge into nonexistence
to make me a violin amidst misunderstanding
an imperfect piano in Chopin’s musings

to confuse me with another
spewing me on a distant shore
to bear my craziness of walking naked
among suspicious warriors
to teach me a prayer for each & every
breathing day
to take me to the other side
inside

I want elongation & annihilation
the practice of martial arts
in the truth of uncertainty
to invent distant words for the violent joy
of being alive

I want the little things
filling the imperfection of the day
like the warmth of your socks
my hand finding your stubborn lips
the forgetting of your tired shoulders
the softness of my whispers sometimes
my shoes next to yours wandering there
where something always happens
hic sunt leones
the shape of your thoughts in the bedclothes

I want to fall from grace
to love the weight  burying
me in this round-about,
the hymn of my blood