You call that first darkness sleep. Is that the name for the nothing from which you pulled me? *** You call that first vision a dream and I want no part of it. I am fully at its mercy in the dark, As I am at your mercy in the day. *** When I am […]
The Turkish carpet lay across the uneven floorboards that night, Whorls of brocade that gleamed in the distance spiraled to faded gold. My heel caught on the raised stitch and I stumbled. You caught me and led me in a slow dance to the rhythm of a ballad, That could have been a battle hymn
Fortress I don’t trust. It has nothing to do with you. It has nothing to do with our time together on this earth. My heart is a fortification confining the transgressions of generations, detaining their retributions from rampaging across the sugar cane fields, or scorching the newly bloomed hibiscus flowers, tearing the wings off hummingbirds,
Nights of Lights Suspended lights whose glow glides against a smoldering sunset, While the color of navy eyeshadow creeps an ashy stroke along a darkening sky. Lightning bugs flutter between incendiary bodies, Propagating waves across the uncompromising emptiness of space, Landing like stardust on our already over-heated skin. We wait for talismans, Some message in
I ask the darkness What is woman? I have no map to that country, Etched in the moon’s blood. When mother left, she took the compass with her. I have not received Such secrets as pass From mother to daughter. What else is there to find but a changeling. A poor facsimile made of barely-sculpted
There are two of you, Training ground for how to be Both whole and fragmented. I am me but I am also your mother. I belong to me but I also belong to you. There is enough of me for a multitude, But sometimes, I am barely enough for myself. The moon goes through phases
There was nothing remarkable about the way they died- The usual love-hate-fight-leave-comeback lovedance, The comfy dysfunction, the bruises and curses, The scattered pictures, toys and books, trappings of some shared yesterday. But most deaths do not expose such fractured domesticity Nor lay the burning embers of a humiliating need To the examination of public opinion
Mounting Butterflies Read More »
The brown ceramic cups Decorated in painted flowers Peonies in amber Meant for your morning tea We found a pair of them while searching through the used shop Rummaging for something useful Something, but I no longer remember what The memory has long been Swallowed up in the recollection of those peony fields Pink on
 
 
