tea leaves

November 20, 2014 § 2 Comments

You moved too quickly, too absently.
Thin, fabric skin split around the dull metal and scattered
spices and leaves – a wet, wolfish darkness –
on the porcelain Sahara
of your coffee mug.

You’ll probably die tomorrow.

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gradients

November 6, 2014 § Leave a comment

Lying in the half light
darkness holds her skin
and her world turns in the chords of Hallelujah

Lying in the dark
the sheets hold her skin, now
and she turns in the swirl of his minor chord

Baby, I’ve been here before

Lying in the shivering empty night
nothing holds, nothing anchors her anymore.
She swirls into the minor chord: reverberate, then vanish

Hallelujah.

poisonwood

September 24, 2014 § Leave a comment

This love is a forest:
consuming itself in chunks
as it rots sullenly
in the dank of leaves and bark and dying.

This love is overrun
with unformed angry things
un-enamored of its own beauty
trampled by seasons
deeper into the dark leaf slime.

But this love is a forest.
Out of the slime and the dark tunnels
out of the trampled, the eaten.
Out of the rot, the green grows
Stronger.

The forest eats itself
and lives forever.

volleyball

September 18, 2014 § Leave a comment

Sand shifts peevishly between my toes
against the dead winter skin on my legs.
Leaves cavort in space
between branch and brown grass
and miles above my head
the vast expanse of blue is dotted – like a child’s notebook –
with ravens that circle endlessly:
black feathers ruffling in sunlight and wind.

She’s here beside me.
Her long eyelashes
stark against the pale winter of her skin.
Her fingers, slim and intentional
flutter on the pages of a book
forgotten. She sleeps.
A faint smile steals her lips –
for a moment
I see her dreams

No. 25

August 25, 2014 § Leave a comment

We walked until we’d left the rain

and found a flag the color of twice-washed sky.  

 

She pointed out an airplane

and we disputed the possibility of Superman.

 

We sat on curbs,

laid in a stranger’s grass,

walked a cracked and crumbling line

with wine in our hands,

 

heading for the home that became –

too soon – simply a house


walls we were leaving.

No. 22

August 22, 2014 § Leave a comment

The tyrannosaurus Rex pulls staples.

His old days – munching on herbivores –

reverberate in a cold plastic memory.

 

It was that damned

meteor. Knocked us into

a rotation of cubicles under

long bars of white light

rendering Strong Things humdrum.

 

We’re fading out amid pulled staples and

perforated paper.

“Pink page goes to shipping,

yellow goes to Brenda,”

and the white page? I’ve forgotten.

 

The tyrannosaurus Rex pulls staples.

I answer telephones. 

Damned meteor. 

I am what holds you

August 13, 2014 § 1 Comment

I am the bright half-sister of routine:
quick keystrokes on the black and white of your life.
 
I am your PBR after five o’clock
I am your Friday night Netflix 
and the tee shirt you wear every Tuesday.
 
I am the half-cooked dinner
the unfolded laundry, the dishes
you didn’t want to wash.
 
I am Monday morning coffee
Tuesday night yoga
and Wednesday nights pretending adulthood
I am midnights and moments snuck away 
trying to repeat the lakeside where you met 
over cigarettes and disagreements.
 
But I am the stories you’ll tell in thirty years
I am the popcorn smell in the old green pillows
the old ticket from a movie you saw with her.
I am your threadbare baseball cap
I am the long drive you took, wearing it.
 
When you look back at the strata
of your memories, at layers of red rock
building cliffs of years and decisions and places you went,
 
I am among the fossils in the layers
among the pieces that don’t seem to belong
but hold it together anyway.
 
I am your mistakes, your successes, your rises, your falls
I am the battery that made you tick
and the glass of wine that made you talk.
I am what holds you.
I am what holds you.

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