The human handhas six striking surfaces.That is good practical informationto have when you considerthat most of the mysteryleft in the universe is microscopicand yet at the same time, there are stillmany immense things still left […]
My river is a goddess, Verbeia,
she of the snakes, she who will bend and turn,
a twisting kelpie creature who will take
tribute, assailing with onslaughts of rain
I have to step away and let myself break
to let it go
like I’m a ghost hanging from the wall (putting my head
in the mouths of ghosts
I’m a million tiny birds walking
silently on snow
the thing is – we need to accept it.the rich have the timeto develop their art. I speakas a worker, on behalfof some workers, and my fellows are notas the world would decide to imagine […]
The wedding cake looked like a coffin
for an infant, all pink and white fondant,
under a smother of snow white blooms.
The groom wore a chalky blue tuxedo
that weakened his chin and tinted his skin
and gave him a generally terminal bearing.
The best man’s hair looked amniotic,
his lip-licking eye-popping manner lubricious.
The bride resembled a wild mad bird,
flapping her wings and squawking
about the flowers, the flowers—there
weren’t enough flowers: two sombre violinists
stroked out a contrapuntal Bach thing
and bridesmaids in yellow chiffon singsonged.
I do not remember how it feels to be twelve,
but most of the time it’s all I can think about.
Sometimes I think you’ll rise up from the grave,
Sometimes I can not believe that you’re dead,
I have always found desperation beautiful,
And maybe this is all a baptism,
But I wish they’d have told me it hurts so damn bad.
The forest is alive
Branches snap in exclamation to a joke
Whispered by the trees
The wind whines in protest
To the crushing of flowers
Not by a foot but a sole
You are alone on this path
Through the underbrush
Through the pine thickets and burrs
Through the wildflower dotted fields
But you never feel alone
When he bites my skin,
I dream of how your teeth used to sink in.
These bites do not have your imprint.
I wish his hands would fit the way yours did around my neck,
But they’re not your yellow stained nails,
oh, how I used to hold them dear to my chest.
I think I understand Medea a little more now.
Look at my hands.
When the hands that would rather scratch out your own eyes
do harm, what is there to do?
When you hurt them,
where is there to go but the gods?