I drove through
all of middle Earth
to get here;
to lean into the sharp points
of middle hurts.
in true poet’s parlance,

 I am rehearsed,
death, reverberating.
nothing but
kamikaze and the
soot palms that steer it,
practice typeface.
I smile to show you
some white.
I’ve got my cat suit on:

solid shoulders, strong,
curved back and a heavy head
that is full
      a blue cracking
heart to match.
I say where?
and you say
nothing.
smile to show you
my canines.
I come over wearing
 everything I own:

a pack that stalks
and stays together in lunge,
a freshly oil-stoned
suit of knives and
the bled-dry opaline
home that I nest in,
my cozy coronation robe:
my clanking vest that
announces my arrival to
your home.

it is me
wreathed in
all my men’s
bones.

“Hecate” or “the red book”

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We should match.

The streets were lit with glowing bulbs, a rainbow theme and crowded.
“Excuse me,” she had to shrivel so she wouldn’t touch everyone she passed.
 Her cape hit a woman’s mini skirt. Her heel got stuck in a crack and she grabbed a large bear to keep balance. He didn’t mind it. He barely noticed. Those kind of casualties can be brushed off. It was impossible not to let a hand force a lower back to move or to stand tall and let your shoulders brush each bar patron. She quickly adjusted her headband to keep the antlers on.
 “Excuse me,” she repeated as she barreled through them all.
 “Excuse me.”
 “Excuse me.”
 Politeness was the indelible torch she carried. Things broke at the green and she shuffled her way across the intersection without tripping again. The clacking of her heels becoming louder as she moved away from them, she could hear horns and laughter behind her.
We should all match.
 When she saw him, he seemed taller.

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I believe in wormwood,
dried root,
my brother’s ashes
in a silver heart or
a ceramic urn
locked in vase
locked in mirrored chest;
a chant, a poem.
datura when the time
is right.

sometimes I do ceremony,
sometimes I just let things pass.
we do that for others,
carry our grief quietly,
bury things deep
within ourselves.
but sometimes in a fit,
I spill over.
tell you everything.

you said
I like to swim
so I am braised with razor;
become a carnation lake
at your feet and
you said rain–
I like gardens.
so I condensed and
waited to show off my new arms
lined in fresh alyssum.
my cycle     I always meet them in
winter
where my only
light is moon.
my flowers blossom
under the chilled night,
drip a dark nectar and
I am thirsty and
you already know–
I believe in
altar.

I believe in overflowing
chalice.  you believe in
holding space for growl,
holding me with
distance.
you watch me lay the
dill in bowl, line the bed
with tourmaline.
run the bath with
chamomile and yarrow.
I am full of tincture now.
I can move like a jaguar:
slow and black and
hungry.
I am hard to see that way.
you said
I am game.

you’ve been watching
jaguars move,
you’ve been memorizing motion,
I drape myself in constellation
so you can better see me,
storm so you can better feel
me and I traipse across the forest
floor waiting to be found.
my tonsils growing
chelicerae,
my rib cage growing legs,
my bottom becoming fat
with thread and
I know what you like
and I know that
you are game.

you are writhing
game in tiny, tiny
snowflake threads
hung far above the
ground.
 switch places
I become the woods
encircling your howl.
you become the kicking,
breaking patch,
the river marked
by footprints, then
lost, then drowned.

in winter
it is long and dark
and hard to contain
myself
gorged with nectar
hidden by
the wind.
sometimes we do that for
others: hide our
spines.
you watch me prey;
sip the drip of
the effulgent crescent
bulb I worship.
you become the shivering
deer, caught fly,
gutted bunny hooked in

jaw.

I become the
scorned red bath,
the woods,
the bottom.

 

“datura moon”

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she licked his dick slowly
like she liked it.
I thought she liked it.
she was wearing a pink wig,
pink glitter lined her eyebrows and
two white roses in each corner.

and when she pressed her lips
to his tip he moaned
and I felt it like she was
there with me. 

like she was doing it for me.

like she knew I was watching

 

“how guys save me in their phone #9”

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“But being self obsessed has its benefits,” she asserted.


 She didn’t look at him the entire time she was speaking. There was a mirror on the wall.

 “There may be a delay but you find it,” she looked sideways towards him briefly to let him know she still saw him. “I’ve clogged things with more diversion but I’ve found them. Overthinking creates stories and is another safety blanket, just like stuffing yourself with people, food, luxury, garments, money. It’s not at all satiating really.” She stuck her tongue out without noticing. “But those parables play tricks that lead you into places. Places that deserve to mourn, to breathe, be open. Let yourself bleed out and you discover some deep crevices that deserve to be abysmal. Deserve to be left alone once and for all.”

 Her eyes darted a bit when she spoke. Not as if she was unsure but as if she was listening to someone else.

 Glancing at the floor, she added, “The void. Some people don’t even know which wounds they are hiding, let alone which deserve to stay or how many times they can die and revive in one lifetime. They never even try.”

 She shrugged, began to stand up.

“And you,” he raised his head to catch her eye. “The graceful phoenix.”

 She had turned to walk away but her eyes caught him that instant.

“I do not burn to come back to life though,” she furrowed her brow. 

“No?” he grinned, still sitting, staring up at her.

“No.”

 Walking towards it, she kept her attention on the mirror. Attempting to flatten a strand of hair poking out, she marinated in his question. He sat with his hands in his lap in front of her, patient. He sat there like that for what felt like hours. She reveled in his eye. Her lips spread open suddenly into a slow, mirthless grin and she didn’t turn to look at him again. 

“No, I am made of fire.”

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“Strength does not have to be belligerent
 and loud.”

I derive so much from one word.
pull from it.
it’s the synchronicity that
binds me and
the license plate that careened into the pole
instead of me that night read
“ prisons” and
I knew instinctively how
he felt.
tonight I’ll do:

a spring equinox meditation.
brush my teeth.
cut grapefruit for the morning
and ride the waiting out.
pay homage to my Pluto
and my Pisces in the
eight inning.
my Venus nestled in her
vindication, her frequent
illicit engagements kept dark
in that dusty
twelfth house,
but she found a clean mirror and
she is undoing her braids.

i’m becoming a panacea of my own:
memory, tincture, flowers everywhere,
the fuss of first love never leading anywhere but
here in another meditation
on the river walk.
draw my poems out of the older sutures:
undo, redress, pamper the wounds .
think about it.
send you a letter.
remember the way grief sits,
unsettled, right after dusk,
right under your chest,
right under your breath:
a blue river from your fingers.
send you that letter
with my wounds
pasted
 in the margins.

reminding you to
think about it

pay homage to your Venus.
she is out
casting cars into ditches
while you cautiously wait
for lights to
change.
you are holding selenite
in your pocket
but your fingers still
curve and you are still
smirking,
standing where they
are now
sitting and
wilting
in screams,
it was the way you asked
in a bit of a curtsy:
one more chance 

but you snap.
and they lose their
breath just like that.

“prisons” or “Venus in the 12th House”
or

“how guys save me in their phone”

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smirk.

 black lipstick and naked eyes and
 lied about time when I asked her.
she looked at her wrist to
count the hearts but missed an
hour and she is
 dulled,
not rusty but
blunt and I know
when she walked away,
her hand was

steadily sharpening.

 

“how guys save me in their phone #6”

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