I could have been there
a statue standing
in her marble skin,
the swan spun neck and the lines
of the collarbone
thin as ice.
My hips an eclipse
of white crushed velvet
the nectar in the clouds which
grace and skim the moon,
so hungry for affection
I am marching
into chaos but the waves
So it will be this in plain sight
threat quiet like a
this kind of sickening of the flesh
shrieking inside the skull;
an insidious growth on the
underside of the
Every word is tasteless,
is fractured, is bruised.
We are not rich anymore.
This rage with no where to go –
its claws sunk deep in the ribs
of the world crashing
in upon itself and we
are letting it bleed from our hands
and our eyes
and our mouths
and our gums.
What nightmares had we been
weaving in our
The future has always been dark, angel.
Always unknown and unknowable.
The future is dark that you may remember
to light your fires, to keep them burning,
to stay close
Flare up in the brilliant fires of love,
the luminous fires of hope,
the fires of light
in the caverns of our darkest places.
Inside the human heart it is dark, supple, strong,
wet, flexing, pulsing and alive.
The future has always been dark, beloved.
Dark that we may adjust our eyes
to move out across uncertain terrain,
dark that we may heighten
our other senses:
that of hearing, to listen intently
for what, we may not yet know
but listen, listen, listen, still;,
that of feeling
with hands, feet, skin, breath,
that we may be guided
by the glow of inner wisdom,
that we may light candles
and explore halls we’ve not yet tried
to navigate, but will need to
to find our way
or to make a new one.
Dark that we may be the burning lights
and be seen.
Paper tissue snow
collects like crystals dusted on trees.
The distant hands of an astral clock,
tapping the sap veins of porcelain ice,
will hold together gray skies.
A life lost is coming in close
as the printed steps you once made
are falling softly
My arms are blue rivers
spread by the moon
as the silence buds,
dies in quiet.
If only just now, our bodies buried
inhale deeply the lungs
of the turning dark
Winter fires, blind,
my tongue the curl of cold smoke
suckles the flesh of a gliding frost,
night winds licking
on the tender wrist
like little red threads
had been stolen from me,
pulled, taken, slid out subtly, slowly
from underneath my skin.
I let them.
I believed them because
I did not yet understand what I had, the patterns,
the texture of the wisdom born inside of me,
generations of the rough and the mild,
the way they must press against each other,
dissimilar grains of similar sand.
I did not yet understand that to write is to grow
the spine of the soul
as it was meant to grow
in all directions
upward, like an ever widening intricate tree,
the wild, tangled reach of expression,
toward the sky
arms, branches, throats.
To write is to discover the peace and brutality, the light and
darkness of who we are,
to begin to weave those little threads into what might have been;
into what may be yet to come.
Stitching: word into word, self into self, we to ourselves,
to each other,
lush impossible patterns.
Writing recovers those stolen hours.
The pen hands the freedom
back to me.
In the dusty haze
I was becoming a thing
A fading light
to the sleeping
of days gone
Eyes of the future
And the light stayed
catching itself in patterns
No where to go,
no where to run,
nothing in my hands
I was so very alone
and it was okay
I knew it.
I could finally hear
the space between the breathing,
it had been the gaps which I had missed
In solitude, I am fed by invisible hands,
I am nourished.
I am touched thoroughly by the sweet sombre soak of
the way life falls
back upon itself, shadows content
their silent places
in the dark.
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