“Bleached Aviary”

mother shaking flower a tiny

green world scatter gravel

gone now I follow rivers

black L shaped dark V

yellow lost run boy; wave

wood lightning away white

reflection plank the blinds

outside in years blow canopy

porcelain stomach berries love

war; rectangles creamy squares

dying mint eel a

ruckus should pears pressed

against the night we met

tree speckled leaning awfully

close moss mouth shooting up

onion skins thinning wire

photo tucked ley lines bite

stained stick monster a moat

the body between; the laugh

hinge memories scraps dripped

family dry perched thick not

around here locket curves

bench crying knot scratch

cross missing umbrella still

stand ending falling back

pit branch the fig never

sitting rain; still mulch nerves

looking down ivy face quiet

cloak the camera storm it

coming across bird skin

vessel flesh hops waiting

and then fly.

 

“Furnished Blush”

One slip, a falling trick, then she’s in his arms, a CRASH.

He traces her Picasso cheekbones. The back of his hand comes away, a smear of soft yellow glitter.

She frets about the smear. Do I still look alright? She fears.

It looks fine. But then the eyes. Can you see them? She asks. They follow her. There are so many.

He doesn’t know what to say. Can he make it up to her, in any way? He’s not sure what he did wrong.

“Corsets: Part Two”

binding history

a ghost in the fog

golden fruit

broken spinal

columns

of a war

a war of

blood and thorns

born of a war

lead paint

lead blade

lead pencil

black vines

of obsidian

made of war

orange sparrow

stuck to her

a war partridge

a partridge of war

rivers running

red rivers

made of battles

chaos rising

a ghost in the fog

binding history

a war of wounds

smudged bodies

the all-seeing eye

 

“Scrying Mirror”

Sometimes I do not think that I deserve to be loved.

I am strange,

paltry,

ugly.

I take swords to my chest, you see,

and I plunge them deep

whenever the corners of my mouth lift too high,

for my own liking.

I then pull them out and push them in again

and again

and again.

The pain of it lingers, though I stopped crying out a long time ago.

The pain of cracking my own chest open,

and hoping beyond hope that I like what I see.

And the hope that you, darling, like it too.