This silence does not cease
and smoke in lungs becomes a sticky forest
where women die.
Truly men are like that—
The six bodies were found in the spring
covered by eight o’clock news
beneath wet snow and layers of air.Read More
"I’m trying to think of words that describe softness
warm fur and sunshine and flowers and round clouds of cigarette smoke you gift me.
I’m trying to uncomplicate how I feel about these things that smell like danger
and why we’re drawn to men like wolves, howling in the night, hungry."
but also her morning songRead More
This old watermill of your mother
creaking in wooden tightness against
water flowing like a body in ecstasy.
No. 1Read More
"There are songs that you cannot hear, but under the hollow glow
of the towers and sun."
In the white silence of your comb
glistening between the strands of your
pines creak in the distance
quiet rustlings of a waking forest
tall growth and mist.
Both unseen but felt
on your skin,
and under your feet.
Moss breathing out the names of past lovers.
Who has lain with me here?
Comfortably silent and full
belly round as the moon, writing new notes
for her night orchestras.
The discipline of peace and full mouths.
The addiction to air.
Fill yourself with me
and try to sing.
We are full of flames and woe and bad coffee drank hurriedly in the mornings.
full of half held hands at the frontier of a war we signed for,
passing each other in the hall of an early morning
full of the cries of children and bills.
The wind is black when it rains
but at night you can’t hold onto me.
And I was instructed not to initiate.