My body is the
temple where both love and hate
reside in turmoil.

The beauty of eyes
When examined too closely
Is a disaster

Poetry has become my self harm,
I only write at my lows...
Instead of blood I see words,
Instead of a blade I have a keyboard...

I want to write about...
The wind dancing with the sea...
Or...
The way you smile and it lights up your innocent face...

I don't want poetry to be my self harm,
Because poetry is beautiful...
An art...
Not.
Just.
Blood.
And.
Scars.

I say I am you
tree
roots and limbs and bark

I say I feed you as you feed me oxygen
we need each
to be

My roots are not covered
and I am not near as tall or robust
my canopy never will attain the beauty

nor hold leaves and seeds
into the sun like you
And then

I ask the tree,
who might you be?
He stands as he always has,

says, I am but a tree,
I bow and say amen.

I'll climb a thousand hills,
stumble on every rock,
fall on my knees and,
fight myself to stand back up,
again.

I'll hitch a flight,
on your dust,
across the milky way,
and wonder if,
you even know,
I'm heading in your direction,
Despite your solar wind.

You'll turn back and say no,
No, no, no, no,
So many times.
And I won't hate you for any of them.
I'll just shake my head and smile.
I'll follow your presence,
till the ends of time,
I won't hide myself,
Alone, anymore.

I'm nothing, nothing,
All humans are just,
Nothing.
Nothing.
But for you I'll be something.
I'll be myself and I'll find,
The place I belong,
At your side.

It kept her inside the workshop,
the only noise, a sewing machine
quietly purring like an old moody cat.
Spools of threads closed into fists,
Fingers curling back into their tiny shells.

She places a piece of cloth on the table,
The open seams sticking out
like the yellow stains of a neck fold.
An old worn out shirt with little holes
filled with imaginary garden trolls.
The smell of moth ***** seeping out.
Curling her lips like a slug with a pinch of salt,
A hesitant hand moves deliberately
as if feeling the roughness of a warty toad.
To keep one is to improvise, to mend spaces
tightly with thread and needle on skin.

She will say to herself: “I will keep him close”
Her little lover’s shirt on her small bruised frame.
chipped, she will drink liquor bitter.
She will drink it long and drink it deep.

November 2014