Jew harp, Plath hearted, dream seamstress
who sits in the dark.
Who made me live here.
In a small room inside my head, little dictator
and I lit this place with music, just for you
Where all sounds but songs are dead-headed
Just before they bloom.

Totalitarian angel, rage-filled fragile smoke
who censored my tower of Babel.  
Who tamed my very rivers of song
to breathe the moon-tones as vapor, until as a sun  
you’d rise to scar these rivers, every single one
wherever you find them, with your face.
No matter how they run.

Paranoid animal with an understandable
aversion to caress and kinetic poetry.
Damsel who births her own dragons
like the fertility of hell, again and again.
Life and love belong to the monsters
the monsters you make of them
but all of them I’d befriend.

and I wonder.

I could chew my pen hand off
snared coyote.

I could swallow my tongue
dancing to dead note barks.

I could visually inhale that sun.
Take in all I can.
To get the eyelid ink spots.
The branded silhouettes
busying my eyes as I sleep
each night as I sleep.

Without this allergy to identity
you could turn this world backwards in me.
That hell of a snow-globe you hold
if only you knew what kind of world you controlled.