depleted
of energy,
a weight of gold
upon my heart,
its heavy dull luster
pushes down hard
squeezing out
        the light
suffocating
    my staccato
of breath
     I crouch        
quietly
in the brush,
the next step in
my process
                 pending
a dense rock
of pendulum
swaying time
  tick ticking
in my blood
cells reaching
the boiling point
just shy
of spilling over
into froth
waiting for
this conundrum
        to unravel,
my inner tigress
about to unfurl
             her heart
    to leap
and pounce
from
   within
into the
  tight
white
          of blinding
snow, the silent
storm of  
      the unknown
forever

A river was frozen in my chest, O god –
I choose a burning boat to reach you.
My planet has become a broken bridge.

Voiceless hymns are haunting me.
Standing in a remote village of words,
my poetry beside me.
I want to cross the thick woods.

The hairy legs of tarantula –
I am ready to meet them on my body.
A skylark ejects a lyric at my terrace,
I become a flame.

Pour honey, pour water
I will glow more. The sparks will stay hidden.
When the sky would be overcast and dark,
thousands of stars will come out.
Suddenly there will be light.

.

I am merely the conduit...
For those who are voiceless.
Or the servant even...
To things which lay silent.
I am the medium through which
you come alive.

A noteworthy find,
but your words are still your own.
Birthed from the deepest ocean of thoughts...
Forged with the fiercest fires of emotions...
And harvested from the richest mine we call life.

But I hadn't planted the seeds...
You did.

But you did nurture them,
so they might flourish.
You did share them,
so others you nourish.
If I am anything in this enterprise,
I am the wind that brushes your skin...
Not the gust that fills your sail.

Then I accept that we're both so fitting.
Therefore I acknowledge you
as you do I.



Me
Muse

.

Nine years and still
we cradle our grief
carefully close,
like groceries
in paper bags.

Eventually the milk
will make its way
into the refrigerator;
the canned goods
will find their home
on pantry shelves.

Most things find
their proper place.

Eventually the hummingbirds
will ricochet against scorched air,
their delicate beaks stabbing
like needles into the feeder filled
with red nectar on the back porch.

Eventually our child
will make her way
back to us. Perhaps.

But I’ve heard
that shooting
****** feels
like being
buried under
an avalanche
of cotton *****.

For now it’s another
week, another month,
another trip to Safeway.

We drive home and wonder
why it is always snowing.
Behind a curtain of snow,
brake lights pulse, turning
the color of cotton candy,
dissolving into ghosts.

And with each turn,
the groceries shift
in the seat behind us.
From the spot where
our daughter used to sit,
there is a rustling sound—

a murmur of words
crossed off yet another list,
a language we’ve budgeted
for but cannot afford to hear.

Comfortably
Laying
On a Cloud with
U, darling you
Daydreaming with the
Stars