“Prayer”

Rainstorm.

In my backyard,

planted in mud.

Life my face to the thunder.

Open my arms

like petals

of a thirsty rose.

Stick out my tongue to catch all she had.

And the gray sky remembered

she had lightning.

you’re a gray timber distance:

overcast.

dull and falling.

learning how to be gentle with does,

chrysanthemums, the faux antiques I left,

all the obloquious parts of yourself.

I’m a light shiver

wrapped in an afghan somewhere else,

sun with someone else. 

laugh resounding in buzzing

pages

for days, a string of 

soft adjectives capturing the stun of

unrequited silence, devouring you 

in mild cadence.

be gentle with yourself

and take cover in your recovering vituperation,

your newfound green,

forest of self-commendation

for trying to change.

hold a rose bud my way.

be gentle.

let the glare from my smile

blind you

in stages.

let the blossom it makes

shade you.

tonight I’ll do:

A spring equinox meditation,

brush my teeth

cut grapefruit for the morning,

ride the waiting out.

Pay homage to my Pluto;

my twelfth house of self undoing.

Unapologetically expand.

Im becoming a panacea of my own

I have three tubes of almost finished Chap-stick

that I am obsessively licking

to taste your wounded lips

and a candle that never seems to go out.

“and i could not tell which fit me more comfortably,
the power, or the powerlessness; neither would
have me entirely; I was divided.”

–mary oliver

we choose
impenitent thirst or the gentle mercy
the men or the glory
we say
my god or I’m sorry
pause when agitated or doubtful
or sink your mandible heart on them

Writers write their reality into being. My veracity is devastating

telling of tragedy (maybe I can write myself happy), no saviors or climax

that doesn’t end in a casket or straitjacket or terminated pregnancy.

Girl in the bathroom asks me for a tampon.

I think I have one

somewhere.

Fish around my backpack,

trying to look young when I trudge through campus

to catch the bus. I check out the Frisbee players,

cover my bags with sunglasses,

cover my arms with denim sleeves,

cover my tracks with torn contraception.

I’m pregnant 

and my first thought is

get rid of it. I know what five percent chance means

and the joke’s on me. 

be patient


uncaged girl
wrought with marks,
hail nails,
scratched by storm,
gray arms,
dirt canines,
rock tongue
slurping you up.
settle in the caustic stomach of impermanence
when it
should have been this way!
you stomp.

easy, you’re ephemeral too,
just passing the time
with ghosts
letting the world devour you
in scheme,
well-timed stages.
and your bully heart,
bruised but
whole


always the last to go.

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