Tag: writer

Kitchen Knife

In the crisp, cropped morning –
gold daydreams at the edges.
I hurry to class
fantasizing about books,
about the secret haven of birds,
about a candy leopard.

The future ripples like
accommodating grass
with each turn I make.
Each choice is a wind setting out
over the plane of my uncategorized existence
like a ray of light.

What lies in the center of beauty
but a fawn sleeping soundly,
her mother still 3 days away
from the hunter’s gun?

Amiable maps will reveal
the road to catharsis,
but hide the rambling path
of permanent joy
that I have to cut into the brush                     myself with a kitchen knife.

Tendrils, Fence, Sneaking around after dark

Tendrils of ivy are hatching in God’s drawings of the South. The South is a forest green. New England is blue. The mid atlantic is cream.

Fake things bother me. Even fake blood.

The spirits were behind the children, not in front of them. 

Trick or Treat!

Sorry, nothing left.

I snuck under the fence into the field, hiding from the horses. If you stood at the crest of the hill you could see Blacksburg, Christiansburg, and a bit Radford twinkling in the dark. Somehow we spooked the horses, and I had to flatten like a piece of paper underneath that electric fence again ASAP to get out of there and escape.

They Lie

the thing with Mondays
is –
they lie

that eternal weekend
lives in its shell
at a deeper level of
sea than you’ll ever go-

tethered to the busting
waves by an insipid Monday

There is no compassion
in industry.

you will always be desperate
in the tidal pools,
the diving suit you live in
desperate for elsewhere

Friday,
In his flippers and goggles
Does not exist.

Suggested

Seashore of officials. Miami has been a bad choice. Winter writers flutter like they were born to make their children feel so strange. The law has changed since I was a reptilian woman. I have laid my eggs in front of my hourglass. Children – they slide into chambers, sew themselves suits. Why comb a bald beach of boiling beer?

Old

After fate untwisted,
she left a trail of
disastrous death in my driveway.

I need an incantation
to summon the voice in my
hands.

Sprawled lazily across
the concrete,
hieroglyphics bleeding
with age.
I drew them.

My people ran down
the lane years ago
to hunt the sneaky beast.
I am the only one left,
struggling to clutch my ochre
with broken hands.

Day and Night

The dawn makes much of me,

flooding as she does

over the delta of dark.

The cowardice of night,

the dryness on the dark,

amaze me like

the paranoia at the foot of

my bed,

gnawing his hands

and begging for bandages.

Dawn always grows up.

Noon holds me in

a vice grip,

and I yearn for my shadow

and his praise of me.

Slowly,

sun turns to chaos

and things separate.

Evening falls like linen

on my hair.

Holier,

I brave the coming dark,

already thirsty,

as the light flows

to her next season.