Before my family began,
a star threading DNA
through her burning arms.
Five point kindergarten star,
the classic.
In a sea of guanine,
boats bobbing in the storm,
future dismayed joints.
Among the blooming cytosine,
dysfunctional minds floating
like pollen
then collapsing into solidity.
The voices of pre-dead women.
My sight unsewn.
This star will explode.
Children mature
the way multitudes desire,
turning from proud stones
to sand.
The machines take turns
walking me.
I’ve been ill with
wicker baskets for weeks.
Between my legs,
unzipped zipper.
Epiphany window.
When I was pregnant,
I lived wretched
as a butterfly in glass.
After birth,
I became a flower.
My stone
makes my reliquary
when she naps.
Far away,
mortars,
pestles,
beaches.
I will hide her in
the hungry mountains.
I have so many photos and poems coming up! I have 80 more poems to edit. Additionally, I have tons of photos I want to post. On top of that, I have some paintings to post. I am going to get this all scheduled out.
Creativity has been sliding through my body like a pipe cleaner through a drain, narrow, dirty. Although I have not actually felt consistently normal, my creativity has been high as long as it is something I can do in private. I hate that I have the magazine at a stand still. I have more to publish and rejection notices as well. I am getting anxiety about posting. My mind has been absent lately. If I make a mistake on here, it doesn’t matter. If I make a mistake with someone’s story or poem, that matters.
My period of heightened introversion is good for me. I’ve been lonely, but I’ve been producing. I will be traveling soon, and I want to do a lot before then.
My shoes are made of china,
the white and blue decorating
my spectral feet
like moon shadows.
Everywhere I have ever walked
has been coated in bone or glass.
I avoid mirrors.
They show me all my thoroughfares,
and all but one are cruel.
The last is frightened.
Little by little,
my feet bleed.
The friendship between
nail and noose is
careful, refined.
Outside the pharmacy,
a pale and rain-soaked line.
What I know in my head
I do not know in my wrists
that hide a way of love.
The tree is held up by a cable
wrapped around Gabe’s hand
at the other end.
On the tree,
a sign nailed in
“Welcome.”
Tall meagerness
looms above my cold day.
Greatly desired ghosts
refuse to descend from the trees.
While vegetables sleep in
the earth,
hunger tugs at them gently
trying to lead them to birth.
I feel empathy.
So little to see.
So little to say.
The height of my soul
An inch above sea level.
Above me,
a lack.
God filtered through rain,
six color promise.
The sun he forged
burning my toast from
the immunized difference
between us.
My promises are colorful too.
Purple promise to my husband,
to love the landscape of
his judgments.
Red promise to absorb his kisses,
squeeze mine out on his
body like a lotion.
Yellow promise of waiting
for him in the gaps.
The tree wears a brace.
Summer is only half southern.
Among the roses
atoms splitting.
I reach through torn air.
Past it –
a gummy planet.
My life will live on
without me.
Hair and schedules
are only shells.
Nothing stands well
against the climate
of persnickety evil.
The tree’s chi sinks into
its roots.
The roses,
meanwhile,
fire their hopeful signals
at random.
The ghost tries my
new furniture,
finds it comfortable,
sits inside me when I
refuse to get up and
make way.
I’ve not been inhabited
by myself in many days,
so this is refreshing.
But I itch.
He doesn’t quite fit.
The last of the rain
hides under the chipped bench.
In a burrow ten feet away,
Summer and her bulimic brood.
Children stare at their faces in puddles,
faces framed by the
rainbow slick of motor oil
in the water.
What hallucinogenic heat
pushes a woman to the docks,
makes her surrender in
the family boat named
SS Hypatia?
Miniature Moon 