The out of practice touch
shrinking back (try, try again)
the stages of growing together
(backwards sunrises, sunsets)
and finding yourself (alone)
the dreams of ghosts
and unsettling
this is my home.
tonight the carrion crow
stops circling - he's found
the throat of a lamb who cannot
struggle any longer.
The quietest waking wars are found at the shoreline, freezing toes off and counting down the minutes to high tide. I turn my face to the left and see the dawn; to the right of me is the dusk. Savor the daylight for when it is gone, my love. My circling island is just that.
but how to write
(the safety of etched arms
quietest of mornings
ringing laughter
sighs into necks and arms and chests
galaxy eyes
the windchime
flower languages
soft, beating hearts)
the songs of us.
sea stars become our north
small angels that hush the sea as it storms forward
and are stoic as the waves become glass reflections
for now, we are safe
and the pulse calms, the breath softens
a knotted neck sinks
at first clasp of our bodies
buried promises in my breast,
a pillow for a poor man
who has lost, yet loves my trembles until I am
still
worry is the beetle wings left on my windowsill
I can't tell if the air exhaled is smoke or frost,
or if inhaled is the cold, or your sighs made with eyes closed
and a heart beating barely
in my slumber I reach for you, constantly
my star on the horizon, moving with the winter sun
but my fumbling hands try to make you my true north
and though my thighs open for your hands,
your kiss, I still ache for you to reach into me
and find the parts that hurt
please
forgive me for not being strong enough
to destroy them on my own.
towering losses, collapsed civilizations
built upon the wrinkles of hands
kissed as you fell asleep for the last time.
i could not say anything and i regret it.
-
"the kids are at bereavement camp,
jenna started crying in a dairy queen
and said that's where grandpa always
took her after school to get blizzards."
-
my grandma looks through pictures,
unable to answer questions.
-
i don't know if it's a real memory but
everyone told me that he won my
bear robin in vegas and i remember
being small and it being a
dark place but my grandpa was there and
i was safe again.
-
i don't want
to write anymore.
a horse'd deer,
words like blood
spilling
straight from the sources mouth
and a caught throat,
and a cotton tongue,
signing, sighing,
two hands that are not my own.
A long road, smudged out
by the fingerprints on my eyes
left by millions of painful
people prying them open;
and my thoughts like moths
leaving behind their silver dust
as they flutter, away,
finally free from the darkness they suffered
inside of me, never feeling the warmth
of a candle or the death of sunlight,
as they leave, i am grateful, sad.
but moreso i am afraid;
as they disappear into whispering pillow talk
i come to hear an echo
i am not who i am supposed to be.
1. watching you sleep.
ghost breath on folded hands,
a slumbering prayer, so gentle,
beautiful. snow falls, quieting
my restless thoughts.
with you here,
i feel okay again.
2. love poem.
blessed and special one,
you hold my heart;
tonight i tremble,
for it is a fragile thing.
The out of practice touch
shrinking back (try, try again)
the stages of growing together
(backwards sunrises, sunsets)
and finding yourself (alone)
the dreams of ghosts
and unsettling
this is my home.
tonight the carrion crow
stops circling - he's found
the throat of a lamb who cannot
struggle any longer.
The quietest waking wars are found at the shoreline, freezing toes off and counting down the minutes to high tide. I turn my face to the left and see the dawn; to the right of me is the dusk. Savor the daylight for when it is gone, my love. My circling island is just that.
but how to write
(the safety of etched arms
quietest of mornings
ringing laughter
sighs into necks and arms and chests
galaxy eyes
the windchime
flower languages
soft, beating hearts)
the songs of us.
sea stars become our north
small angels that hush the sea as it storms forward
and are stoic as the waves become glass reflections
for now, we are safe
and the pulse calms, the breath softens
a knotted neck sinks
at first clasp of our bodies
buried promises in my breast,
a pillow for a poor man
who has lost, yet loves my trembles until I am
still
worry is the beetle wings left on my windowsill
I can't tell if the air exhaled is smoke or frost,
or if inhaled is the cold, or your sighs made with eyes closed
and a heart beating barely
in my slumber I reach for you, constantly
my star on the horizon, moving with the winter sun
but my fumbling hands try to make you my true north
and though my thighs open for your hands,
your kiss, I still ache for you to reach into me
and find the parts that hurt
please
forgive me for not being strong enough
to destroy them on my own.
towering losses, collapsed civilizations
built upon the wrinkles of hands
kissed as you fell asleep for the last time.
i could not say anything and i regret it.
-
"the kids are at bereavement camp,
jenna started crying in a dairy queen
and said that's where grandpa always
took her after school to get blizzards."
-
my grandma looks through pictures,
unable to answer questions.
-
i don't know if it's a real memory but
everyone told me that he won my
bear robin in vegas and i remember
being small and it being a
dark place but my grandpa was there and
i was safe again.
-
i don't want
to write anymore.
a horse'd deer,
words like blood
spilling
straight from the sources mouth
and a caught throat,
and a cotton tongue,
signing, sighing,
two hands that are not my own.
A long road, smudged out
by the fingerprints on my eyes
left by millions of painful
people prying them open;
and my thoughts like moths
leaving behind their silver dust
as they flutter, away,
finally free from the darkness they suffered
inside of me, never feeling the warmth
of a candle or the death of sunlight,
as they leave, i am grateful, sad.
but moreso i am afraid;
as they disappear into whispering pillow talk
i come to hear an echo
i am not who i am supposed to be.
1. watching you sleep.
ghost breath on folded hands,
a slumbering prayer, so gentle,
beautiful. snow falls, quieting
my restless thoughts.
with you here,
i feel okay again.
2. love poem.
blessed and special one,
you hold my heart;
tonight i tremble,
for it is a fragile thing.
simultaneous understanding. by aeronautics, literature
Literature
simultaneous understanding.
1. days spent.
the albatross came with a wingspan
great and unending. it strayed
for a moment, getting caught
in telephone wires but managing to
break free in the end. the elephant in
the room was unmoved, whispering
"what really makes things literary
is the conceit."
2. running.
blue and red lights flash behind me.
the dark purple bruises under my eyes don't respond,
feet shuffling to comply at knocks and fingers
fumbling with getting the window down in time.
i don't look the officer in the eye as i pass him
pieces of paper i assume are correct.
the windshield is invisible if you ignored the spider
web cracks on the passeng
sorry it's been so long
what you've missed:
I got married
moved into converted barn
new, working antidepressants
become more sure of myself
PCOS
work in childcare
lots of pets
Happiness