The burning comes earlier
and earlier each year, as we march
our way further down this angry path.
Seems I can recall passes
round the sun where snow
still fell in great heaping drifts
from the sky well into March.
Last night, I was in a grim, dusty, subdued Poland,
like a modern theatrical production imagining medieval gloom,
bleached palette, pre-industrial quiet, charred air.
waves crashing over us
i said goodbye to your
two hands cupping a prismatic star
shining lighthouse bright
over dark, indigo waters
first they called me woman,
blessed in girlhood, I knew men
wouldn’t love me for my magic.
Now, this is most important: Before the light in their eyes flicks off
you must ignite the wick, set it near the head, be ready to reignite it in
case breath or wind or rain snuffs out the flame. If you trip, the
mortal’s thread will be at risk of seizure because the distance
As she’s borne softly on the waves,
salt hangs aloft, brining her lips.
Palm trees sway on nearby shores,
but unease gathers in her heart.
It’s paradise, yet she’ll not forget:
her home feels like it’s not enough.
If you love me, you will burn.
Put your cheek against mine
and feel the heat my bones
release into the world. We plant
ourselves in dry soil and gather
There’s a fierce audacity about water:
the way it barges into palimpsest buildings unannounced
the way the buildings are sucked into a void
the way the water barrels our bodies into a concave
cross-referencing us with open tombs.
bedtime is the worst
mama off giggling and cooing
with her latest boyfriend
me sent to my room
ordered not to come out
the thing beneath my bed
oozes out and wants to talk
when the smog finally devoured the dying sun,
the creatures of the night
made a throne of the carnage
and a kingdom of the earth