Thin Skin / White Dresses ~this week’s poems~

white dresses grow dark at the hem

Where the treetops converge 

like quiet siblings of air and earth 

and the sky is so close it traps 

eyes in faraway looks, I’ll be 

seduced by the drumming eulogy 

that the body can still live 

while the spirit is loosed. 


Thick skin won’t

hide my twisted spine

nor does it hide that

my stars lied,

and stood by

while I wondered

how my thin skin

got so crowded inside.


White dresses 

grow dark at the hem 

and my taciturn words are  

the crooked trees dotting the road 

that darkens them, so life 

cannibalizes the lines that cost 

me everything—your black clothes  

are now as dark as mine, 

and like us, everything is best left lost.


on the billowing waves

like satin on your hip

and the halting ocean voice

we crest and ebb

sin and pray

with the same shuddering grace

as saints with little secrets

they count upon their rosary


Removing this tumour
will kill the brain,
but it’s expression
romances the flesh
and gives moments
the breath they never
possessed. If I cut it out,
the heart rate slows,
but these fancies die.
If I let it bloom, I drown
in the blood and rancor
of these sanguine throes.


I watch the nature 

of stone and metal

through stained glass, 

the artist explaining 

water, trees, and blood

while the choral city sings 

and writers cry to the strings 

of the orchestra. 

But it is too late to hide–

the black rosebuds have yawned 

on my chest and I am learning 

about the nature inside.


i am down one arm 

and there is a rat

on the other trying 

to gnaw it loose


whether that will 

be freedom or chains

depends on the day 

and if the damage I do

is to myself or another

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