oh, it’s non stop stories month.
chapter 22: I am fine, xxx is dead.
nice figure.
sharp glances,
obsessed with her wrinkles in
passing window.
thirty three years old and can’t seem to
thwart her own self persecution,
said she liked ass play
and pegging and
doing things in pieces.
“how guys save me in their phone”
one day I had a dream
you bit the head off of a blue jay
and spit it back into her nest.
when I asked why you said:
To prove you will never leave me.
here I am,
on command about to run
across the canyon and I
laugh real loud in my
skin tight
dress:
the one cut real low in the back
in the shape
of an obtuse
triangle;
jarring contrast to my
scared-straight spine
but I still
slouch.
I twist the straw into crooked pieces
and tell myself things:
make sure they know
you are having
a real good time,
show your teeth,
hearty laugh
with belly and mouth and your
lips are stretched to the limits like your
social apathy.
show your full moon eyes
and hide.
hold your tonic like a wand;
fall asleep
inside of yourself
in the middle of
everything and wait for
the night to break.
later, he will show
you photographs
to prove you were
there.
if you are lucky,
he notices the story
dripping from your
eyes, the door
opening, the splash
of scarlet on your tights
as you replace each page,
as you become the
walking lake flooding
the wake that held
you, and he becomes
the witness that love
is a quivering knife.
“tributaries”
I am seeking something.
I am decked head to
toe in rosary and sapphire
ashes, free of any
previous attachment;
hidden by feathers,
shielded by sigils,
the bark and the strand;
the one line of web
that catches the moonlight so you
know what trap you are walking
into as you land.
I am striped like a tiger
with the arteries of
the other in
another insurrection and
I am bathed in night
so you only see me
when I drape myself
in stars, become
a roving constellation.
together we
are better like
a pack:
taut-backed:
hold our curves
like jello axes,
my mouth is sometimes
sandstorm
then suddenly
wet.
little storm and waves, a
flood we are bright eyes and
hearts like meandering cannons,
step soft and low like lions
or snakes in the grass.
our chipped nails hold prayer, tongues,
the clipped wings of our grandmothers.
we are here.
we are clawing at your porch
and oiling the glass in silence
to wind up your banister
without notice teeth out,
sliding under sheets,
look
i’ve got an apple for you to bite.
breath like gentle reminders from God
now, now, learn to be amenable
feel the uneven pulse that vengeance wore;
the way I lay and devour your
sword; the way I become naked
and big and magnetic like Jupiter:
suck it in and
throw it back out at you;
mangled, a new form you can’t
manage anymore.
pausing so you understand the difference in
revival and survived
as you lean into every
sharp point I can provide.
glint from the knife reveals
an untamed eyelash:
unpainted and short and straight
with might.
we are partially cloaked but baring
light smiles,
wayward breasts you can’t touch,
wild right,
a heat between our thighs that you can’t
hunt, and it’s close enough to
smell,
to taste,
to lick our days to waste.
we are wearing the masks of
unlectured howls,
thorns plucked from our ribs,
a blood crusted march,
a cold and ancient
vendetta.
we are arrows:
lit and pointed.
we, my sons,
are coming to get
you.
“the matriarch” or “the other us”
you,
“knowing forgiveness of ourselves as a figure of truth.”
sparkling explosion of
cellophane and champagne nails
tickle birthmarks down a
back.
fallen glitter eyeshadow:
roving crescent moons
dangling off a throat
from everywhere a lip hit
and pieces of gold dust
rolled off my nose.
bare mattress,
a girl licking a cheek and a
bare tear
sort of near.
hearts like lava
fill the blue gray cracks.
ghost stories and berries in bed,
mouth filled with laughs.
I’m in an afghan
sinking my teeth into a shoulder,
straddled with bare feet.
and what else?
I’m somewhere else.
11.
you will know me
by my fang-toothed
smile.
“morphic resonance”
daturamoon.com 