I used to curl my body up small
and write poetry in the kitchen
heartwater cresting in my eyes,
***** smoke crawling upward from between
narrow fingers
and blooming open against the ceiling
like silver flowers,
ashes on the table,
teeth like bone berries in my mouth
red and sour cloaked in cooking wine
heart bleating,
losing heat and composure
in the icy swaddle of
bluewinter afternoon lastlight
continuing the crazed scrawl
onward into the black hours of morning
arched over pages
like a mother or raven or predator or gargoyle
shrouding my prize:
my vicious poetry
my hopeless meandering prose