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
Whirlpool of Crows 