Some poems seem to write
themselves;
I just move the pen.
Others are like lumps
of clay;
they refuse to be molded;
they need moisture and time.
This one is like
a robin that just learned
to use its wings.
It heads west, on a
gentle breeze, into
a tangerine sky.

When I am silent,
and it’s all said and done,
will you bask in the quiet-
happy you’ve won?

No more complaints
slipping past my lips,
just peaceful quiet
and sometimes a kiss.

Will you be smug
while you rant through the day,
watching me nod along
with nothing to say?

That’s all you wanted, right?
Obedient peace.
An interesting woman to meet,
until she becomes what you please.

Or will you miss my words?
My fire? My song?
Will you miss my ranting?
Will my silence feel wrong?

Will you look in my eyes
and see through the glass?
There’s nothing there anymore-
only what you ask.

They said I drowned,
but the truth is softer:
I laid myself down like an offering.

I spit river into their open mouths.
I bit the lilies in half.

Silk turned cathedral.
I let my dress balloon with river light.

The earth had nowhere else for me.

If you pressed your ear to the surface,
you would have heard me humming.
They didn’t write that part.

When they pulled me out,
I still had violets in my teeth.
I still had the nerve to look alive.

If ruin was the crown they gave me,
I wore it dripping.
I wore it bright.

You think you know the story:
girl, river, grief.

But the water was warm that day.
The sky was a soft ache.
I was tired of carrying everyone else’s ending.

So I wrote my own.

Not drowned.
Not tragic.
Not accepting their ending.

the river
wrapped in a coat
of cold grey stones

slides
its icy lines down
through the mountains

the trees
long leafless
and now heavy with snow

are ever patient
for the moon’s return

this is the season
we grow old

this is the reason
we grow young

the voices in the leaves said
let us rest

we are weary
our bones are brittle

our skin fragile
let us gather here

for just a moment
to catch our breath

before the wind wakes
and casts us along

scratching
patternless

and disintegrating