A stranger’s heart
blood of the innocent but I
do not recognize
This pale body, the doorframe to my
My silhouette a vacant passage,
a dark image emerging
behind an image,
the eyes a silent search
for something hostile
through the curl of naked leaves,
fell trees sleep in the palm
of my snow tongue.
Where you touch me
I walk along dirt trails and stone
draping the smolder of twilight
over silver pine cone
Cranberry crowns, a slate gray world
atop a fading day
another season comes
Wolves’ hunger, the ravenous dark is a reverent seed
sewn upon the sweet milk
of my breast.
Ribbons of fingers skimming cream thrown walls,
cast crow shadows are lanterns
and you, a purple northern evening.
I long for the way
the white owl sun swells underneath the fog
in a falling sky.
What is it about the slice of winter in the veins that burns
like red fire,
frost on frost kisses
and the numb tingle
Some days seem very far away
even when they are here,
we have to hold ourselves
as we are losing ourselves
and trust with both hands
and close both eyes
Believe that we are not abandoned
even as we are blown to pieces
at the slightest movement of the wind.
That these breaths of change will
sustain us and not
cave us in.
Lush disordered worlds are breeding and collapsing upon my mind every time I close my eyes, even if you can’t hear the sound of this dance or this death or those thoughts of yours I’m invading.
People keep talking, glistening mouths, crushed pearl teeth. How readily we abandon one another, how easily we misunderstand a thing and leave it there. Please turn around again, the world has grown so cold. How each wispy staccato breath is brushed forward and disintegrating; you can’t feel the tilting of time toward the precipice but they keep on with their speak and I am falling farther and farther away from the gravity of their distraction.
They ask me why I write about missing a thing I cannot name, why I write about making love to immortal creatures, and then they tell me how it all lingers too long, probes too close to the beauty behind the sadness. It’s not that I don’t want to give away the answers it’s that I don’t want answers, I want questions like white lights hanging in the trees. I know they think I’m writing to find fulfillment, and they feel sorry for me, some of them actually do.
There are no tears on this side of the wall but I see it in the coffee houses wearing sweater boots and talking through me like thin snow flakes painted on glass.
Shivering children, hearts which burn of eternal seasons, we are
cloaked rich in generous silence, held in birch wood hands
kissing the mouths of honeyed stars,
juniper corsets laced along frosted
all eyes, beloveds, search wide the dressings
of the wind.
We are threading this life we breathe through a keyhole
tiny snow birds on pine wings on trees,
arms around circles of smoke skin
Summon clarity, summon release,
drink this wine and remember these
ours is an unspoken language
taught by the teachers
Seek with fever the home inside yourselves, hold close to you a foreign distance,
this life of returns,
touch softly upon her walls of shadows
in dreams which bloom on cinnamon ghosts
bathe your pale bodies in milk streams
falling water gently on knees.
This winter night has been ever long, hard and cold
as rock reflects the light of the moon and reveals her features.
In this dark house we learn to listen
and to sing.
We are delivered:
womb into womb.
Be gentle, we are
not yet fully
But the ones who understand, we wear our midnight visions so close to the surface that the veins are fresh crimson even before the skin breaks and we recognize each other by the flecks of mischief in our prismatic eyes. Hold to me from the inside and I will promise you this: they fear us because they want to be us. We know the difference between satisfaction and freedom appears slight from a distance, but when you’re staring together up at the moon it’s the length of a meteor shower racing away from the earth. You raise my hand in yours and we measure it with our delicate fingers. I know we are so small in our nest but my god if you could see our wings unfold they’d wrap twice around the sky.
Flocks of wings fell from a covetous sky as I was dancing barefoot along the edge of
sickle blades beheld in your eyes,
razors cut straight into
an alabaster wind and all I have in this cruel world is a
blood wine offering to my ungodly thirst
standing once removed
at a mirror gazing into
the first orgasmic pulse of the universe.
To crave you is adoption of strange distortion, black flames wet with resplendent poison;
I am fertile, the depths of my shadows have
Temptress, goddess, luna, luna, luna Diana,
deliverance, solar bodies locked in iron chairs
bending back against blue celestial walls.
You are the ancient guiding light when the galaxies are riotous clouds in my
What of the promise which swallows the tears of dying stars
this bone cold ocean of downturned faces
as the earth cries out for her own rebirth
snakes around my infectious words;
ghost lovers in soft willow frames, ecstatic oblivious rotation,
lost minds spinning on axis upon a thimble
dressing and undressing us in rose water and sage.
The crystal globes inside you are melting time beneath my fevered skin
as I insert you, blessed dark heaven between my fingers and my thighs,
tragedy and faith forever bound;
our secrets have become
of an unrelenting
Bone to cheek
we eclipse each other
she walks within me as I am left
shadow bodies, horses standing still at the gate.
I would trade my pain for pleasure, disconnect my jaw from my
heart if only
there were a way to separate the two.
Collections taken up in the spiral of this dark sea bed, breathing:
stars the taste of lavender liquid thunder,
my eyes held in her
reflected at the count of ten, mirrors on
soft ivory angel wings bend in the clouds on fire, tongues of old in the mouths of
newborn creatures born quietly shrieking
all over the world the little lights are hungry,
hills in flames and I am the rain cascading
as she falls through me time and time
ash into ash disintegrating.
What I have done is the emerald chalice of mine
these sins to which she is
blind as I am
sowing seeds in the tears of this sickness
clutching its beak at the nape of my neck.
To be alone is to be
the circling song of her thin disruptive fingers
golden chains braided between her translucent breasts
bewitching in the mouth on the mouth
of my own death.
I knew it was time to begin again
Collect the slim beats of my disfigured heart
and each one of her tender pieces
into a somber fading evening twilight
of the soul,
tuck my bruised bones
into a nest of ambient solitude
and listen to every raindrop
tell its story.
the ways in which I had been torn apart
would heal again back together
and leave a new kind of scar,
the kind I would have to learn
to wear in the daylight