she cannot ride
she sings to the earth
and to the skies
she sings in glory
and in pain
she sings of the things she misses
and those that stain
she sings out loudly
into the dark night
she sings in her cup
when she’s drunk
and to geese in flight
she sings with a gusto
of all she can see
if she ran with wild horses –
tomorrow she’d let free

is made of brick
made of stone
made of alcohol
made of bone

Behind it lies
a grave
in front lies
a shave

I bang my head
on it
crash
into

I’m bruised
and drowning
under scarlet skies
the world is clowning
from my demise

downvoted
bullied
suspended
masked
distanced
cut-down
like a tree
I fall
heavy

the hair salons
by appointment. Now
men can have their hair cut
and off their neck. Woman

can have a dye job. So, their
roots won’t go sticking out
like porcupine quills that
sprout on top of their head

and look like a squirrel that’s
stuck dead all winter
long with his tail hanging off
and his socks on.

in drops
none caught
that wouldn’t stop
but she knew not
from where it came

She bled
like a faucet
her dress she has to
toss it –
it’s covered in red

She bled
in patches
that matches the quilt
on her bed

She bled
North
and south
out of her mouth
and into her head

as raspberry jam
with the seeds sticking
to my feet. So, I cannot walk
off without them
caught in the grooves of my shoes.

He spread himself
as spilled perfume that
stains my dress. It left an
odor thicker than an engine
motor. And I was trapped
under his hood.

He spread himself
as honey. And it was runny,
clinging as it ran –
an amber steady strand.

in my glass
because it salted my drink
and dissolved in the liquid
like octopus’ ink

I cried
in my hands
because his hands are busy
wiping up the tears of so many
I grew dizzy

I cried
by myself
because people cannot stand to hear
a grown-up woman
shed so many tears