If given some lycanthropy
perhaps I might choose
to chase horses
and Victorians beneath the moon.
Perhaps it would not seem so strange,
the monthly change
and tide of blood.
Perhaps as a were I might
learn something of grace.
The night is big
and so are shadows.
In the brief time
between teeth and skin
might I find some other
kin or love than life?

When I was eight I found an arrowhead
in a creek bed, chipped
from black obsidian,
perfect and out of place
amongst the granite sand.
I held it in my hand
and knew what death was.
Death is like obsidian,
cold and sharp and
liable to shatter.
She was like obsidian,
smooth and grey
and eyes like chipped edges.
I have since lost the arrowhead.
But if I hadn’t,
I would throw it back.

The rain is leaking onto my windowsill
leaving a stain. Until
my hair grows out, it will rain
and rain and rain and rain.
Then the mice can sail
in tiny ships, round and round,
and discover new continents.