// nightmare //

I am marching
into chaos but the waves
to me
are blind.
So it will be this in plain sight
this
threat quiet like a
knife,
this kind of sickening of the flesh
shrieking inside the skull;
an insidious growth on the
underside of the
truth.
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 happened
HERE.
What nightmares had we been
weaving in our
terrible
sleep.

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// into the dark //

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
for warmth.
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,
instinct. Memory.
Dark
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.

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// seasons //

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
toward me
are falling softly
behind.
My arms are blue rivers
spread by the moon
wide apart,
as the silence buds,
blooms,
dies in quiet.
If only just now, our bodies buried
long inside,
inhale deeply the lungs
of the turning dark
of seasons.
Winter fires, blind,
my tongue the curl of cold smoke
suckles the flesh of a gliding frost,
night winds licking
on the tender wrist
of another
time.

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.

.

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spine of the soul

Hours
like little red threads
of freedom
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
with countless
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,
we
to each other,
lush impossible patterns.
Writing recovers those stolen hours.
The pen hands the freedom
back to me.

.

.

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// pieces of me //

I was so very alone
and it was okay
because
I knew it.
I could finally hear
the space between the breathing,
it had been the gaps which I had missed
so terribly.
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
so gently
back upon itself, shadows content
to collect
their silent places
in the dark.

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// other //

A stranger’s heart
holds my
hands,
blood of the innocent but I
do not recognize
myself.
This pale body, the doorframe to my
vanishing.
My silhouette a vacant passage,
a dark image emerging
behind an image,
the eyes a silent search
for something hostile
not yet
breathing.

.

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// solstice //

Moonrise.
Moonset.
Threading spirits
through the curl of naked leaves,
fell trees sleep in the palm
of my snow tongue.
Solstice.
Inhale, exhale,
Goddess,
breathing.
Where you touch me
I walk along dirt trails and stone
draping the smolder of twilight
over silver pine cone
hills.
Cranberry crowns, a slate gray world
atop a fading day
another season comes
sliding down.
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
of silence.

.

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// trade winds //

Some days seem very far away
even when they are here,
sometimes
we have to hold ourselves
as we are losing ourselves
and trust with both hands
and close both eyes
and believe.
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.

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