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.

2. “gestalt”

under my therapist’s guidance I
sit down & talk to my inner predator;
learn where all the trouble started.


now, now, listen to the guilt it’s talking. 

I met you in skin and sun
and distant cicada sounds,
street jazz in the background.
met me where I was 
(liquefying)
and made no promise to keep me.
you unrolled your tongue
and the palm of your hand holding your girlfriends’
tiny waist and a note that I’ve read,
god, a thousand times before,
but still cuts like the first fall 
that said
I know, but nothing hot lasts

restraint is an art

i intend 

to master.

but my jealousy is erupting

into fits of flowers:

roses for the look,

jasmine for the scent I wore,

one vine of honeysuckle to 

to bind you to summer where I was 

wet and still and your personal swimming pool

you could wade through,

catch some respite,

use.

I’m sending

her a bunch with no clear note

attached:

(forget||forgive||forget

him)

wafting through your bedroom

door and sitting there

much like the way I wear the 

world:.

carefully arranged

and cool.

self-effacing, straight and strong unlike the hard, twisted ways

I grow to be.

orchids to wilt in too much sunlight when I’m

doting myself to death,

a rose to give my daughter when she becomes

moss in someone else’s garden,

feral evocation: an arboretum

started at the ankle. or

a whole cherry tree

“succor”

I have only written three things down that I had to read 

over and over so  I could

finally comprehend:

my brother is dead.

I like women more than men.

It’s ok to feel pain

confinement can be comfortable,

I was taught men are safe cages.

hard.

wrote something else:

it’s ok to soften.

.We all just want a quiet year
and a veil

and a simple way

out.

 I hold
one shout in my throat

in an effort to subjugate 

myself.

my heart was a brass bell:


frozen,
staid,
caught between two
hungers,

like my waft between a hell

I could dream of

or a hell stitched in
spine.

I would pluck at my 

backbone,

and draw pictures of the

sound.

a dischordant euphony

that produced an eery shock

of light to remind me 

I contain some very black

nights.

“sarcophagus”

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