wide-eyed, with daisies in my hair
and my mother’s heels
two sizes too big for me;
with an apron for a shield
and crayons for swords,
I stood at the crossroads.
there, I met the man in velvet black.
he beckoned me over with a gloved finger,
whispered in my ear a promise.
I held his hand,
he wrapped his arm around my shoulder,
and we walked onto the road.
his voice was the melody,
screeching the accompaniment.
the spotlight,
a white
purer than the sun.

There are stories in your eyes.

I never told you how
sometimes I fell asleep
with the thought that you
were perhaps the moon-

always disappearing
with the dawn.

and i am eleven again
feeling like tomorrow
is a couple yesterday's ago
smothered in cayenne pepper
hot enough to take off taste buds
and tonight i am eating a meal
only worth burning
it tastes like my parents anniversary
it tastes like a zinfandel
left on the counter too long
it's a bad story, see
there's no silverware
'cause my mom sold it
to keep the lights on
and somewhere in heaven
somebody in a suit
doing commentary
on this fiasco
is telling someone else
in a suit that
"you have to eat love with your hands"
so we sit, four plates on the table
for the two of us
my brother's long gone
dad's even further away
& he's not the one who's buried
i carry both their names like anchors
that i cannot unmoor from
while she looks at the empty table
and says something about the news
she says something else
but she's not talking
we aren't proud of this, see
my dad likes to wax his car
he's proud of it
and my mom says
she sees a lot of him in my hands
says, i touch the things i find
like they didn't belong
to people sleeping in the ground
she says i touch photo albums
the same way-
you know,
i never used to believe
that history could repeat itself
not until i could
fast forward seventeen years
and still wake up to smoke alarms
how i would go into our kitchen
to find it empty
and the dinner smoldering
& my mother in her bedroom
looking through family photos
like it's a just another summer day
and the sirens are just the birds
i don't ask, i never say a word
in this moment
i am an archeologist
afraid to dig up the past
cause history repeats itself-
you see
my brother is dead
and my father is gone
they have been for some years now
and my mother
sometimes forgets
and sets their place at the table
like they're still here
and in the confusion
ends up ankle deep
in pictures of how it used to be
she let's dinner burn
and douses it in red pepper
hoping i won't know the difference

the anchor is gilded with gold, set with silver.
made from the ship's own husk,
manufactured to glide with the frame,
sailing as one over the sea,
braving the storm as a singular essence.
but,
look -- observe the layers of gold
that have settled, rubies and emeralds
adorn. and the ship
is weighed down.

i stretch my hand out over the hull.
the sea tastes more bitter than salty,
more rancid than relentless.
once when the moon was still blue,
and dolphins still sang,
my mother told me
that voyages are made err wind, err sea.
she did not say err anchor, the one
she had made me.

this morning, as the sun rose,
i fell into the ocean.
i swam to its depths
i ran my tongue
over the anchor's hooked end, its pointed arch
drawing a drop of beaded blood from my lip,
trailing red.
the gold no longer tasted coppery, only
my blood did.
it tasted of prettied practicality,
soured security and
sedated success --
detritus the ship had picked up
on its voyage.

i tried to scrape them off with my nails,
but my nails came off.
i tried to bite them off with my teeth,
but my teeth cracked.
the ship is stuck.
and so am i.

tonight, i will dream.
i will dream of my
extended tails and jeweled fins,
embellished with diamonds.
they will cut through
the anchor's chains, threaded with strands of
jaded words and loft.
they will cut through them just as easily
as the ship will knife through the water
once it is freed.
slowly, at first, softly unsure; but after,
with lethal agility
that cuts.
it will cut through the water just as a scream slices silence,
grinding metal against salt,
kneading wood through air.

land will be reached:
the ship docks,
and i
can learn
to breathe again.

your slim volume taunts me
i am all flabby with words that wind
a convoluted sentiment
a never-ending pitch and bubble
of adjectives that collect around the waist
sag themselves down
to collect at my feet

and your spine is pin thin
straight. i am petrified at the sight
of your delicate sonnets
resting like slender wrists
that taper down to the profession of words
every word a counted fibre, lean
while i bulk up and on and become
obscene

Luxurious deviance
Leather and lace
Mooonbeams and razors
Blood in a crystal vase
My demons are longing
To feel your embrace
To seize you to me
With my hands on your waist
Our paths intersect
I breathe in the taste
Your panic sets in
As the clouds lay to waste
The rays of the moon
And you behold my face
Shrouded in bloodlust
With no saving grace
Luxurious deviance
Leather and lace

I will choose you,
No matter what's going on.
If I'm cursing the world,
Or falling in love with everyone,
You're still it.

Everything about me chooses you.
Everything I do chooses you.
I know this because even though it's obvious that my happy chooses you,
So does my sad.

Every part of me chooses you.
I know this because no matter where I am,
My eyes will always be looking for you.
My ears will always turn to your voice.

My heart is affected by everything you say to me.

I could be offered the crowd;
A flood of people choosing me.

And I will always choose you.