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.
It’s about the time of day when the curtains seem to move,
the heavenly eyes of an alien silence watch tenderly as I undress.
The way you’re about to touch me won’t remember the way it was, we don’t talk anymore, just light matches and feed each other fire
until the end of time comes sliding down these afternoon walls.
I miss you even when you’re still here and you’re on the biting heels of leaving and I can never stop walking home with cigarettes and mantras burning holes in my mouth.
When I sleep I try to memorize the stars just in case the world turns upside down because I forgot to look after her,
and I need to recall how to travel alone.
As my hair comes undone all around you, my fingers are sifting ash like rain and I’m searching my tears for clouds.
How is it we can crave such love, when love tells me she’s already here.
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.