lioness.

is there more?
i am always wanting there to be more.
he said, heaven isn't heaven unless you know him,
love him, recognize him.
is there more than the simple brush
of your hand across my cheeks
when rivers run tributaries down my face?
i want you in me.

(i don't say such things to be provocative or see your dismay, i'm tired of that.)

i'd just rather be boundless,
sinking into the depths of infinity
and allow you to traverse the
caverns of my veins.

perhaps it's why i'm always running.
fill me up on your love, and then his, and then his.
keep hitting me until it satisfies and
i cannot fall asleep
because electricity is still shocking my nerves.

my legs will leap around continents,
toes skimming the strait of gibraltar,
my hands weaving baskets in
the wheat fields of ohio.
i could keep going, keep searching.
there must be more that could feed this lion.
yes, i am a lion.

i hear her roaring, hours, minutes past midnight
when the beasts come out.
i hear her roaring for perfection, for more.
insatiable hunger for a beautiful thing called love.

my heart, with a red string

there aren't many things that are original-
generally, i stand unimpressed by
your magical thinking.
it's nothing like magic.
even fireflies have more fire in their belly.

my words, too, are merely
echos of this, or the other.
some phrase that tied itself around
my heart with a red string.
i litter the ground, coughing red strings.

but, it was the first snow.
garbage bags glittered clean
we are pure, woven into royal tapestry
my heart, too, encased in the thinnest gold.
finally safe, with magic in my caves.

the first snow.

it was the first snow
cold bitten fingers marred with ash
eyes filled to the brim with frosted tears
east end avenue-new york is ours
neverland is ours- and we'll never grow up

cold confessions wandered in silence.
bridges strung in diamond necklaces
promised dress-up when the tears were over.
are we alive? or are we freezing to death?
hearts burn for the hope of truth.

truth is rarely found in promises, or intentions,
rather in the coldest night, in colder confessions.
iced hearts break quicker than diamonds
don't hold your breath from me.
neverland is ours-and we'll never grow up

(amyleigh & katherinemegan)

hope.

breathe breathe breathe.
the future is not a place to place our disdain.

paradelle for love.

FALLING IN LOVE IS A SLOW DRIVE INTO THE MOUNTAINS.
falling in love is a slow drive into the mountains.
the birds cheer for us, sing for us.
the birds cheer for us, sing for us.
the birds cheer and fall in love with us.
sing along on a slow drive into the mountains.

YOUR VOICE FEELS LIKE PURE WATER IN MY EARS.
your voice feels like pure water in my ears.
your touch is an electric pulse on my spine.
your touch is an electric pulse on my spine.
my the hairs on my spine raise to what i hear.
don't mix pure water with electric pulse.

MY HEART, A FLYING TRAPEZE, LANDS IN CIRCUS LAUGHTER.
my heart, a flying trapeze, lands in circus laughter.
life is just a playful trip to paris.
life is just a playful trip to paris.
my heart plans a trip to laughter.
on a flying trapeze, it lands in paris.

I WOULD DRIVE WITH LOVE ANYWHERE.
i would drive with love anywhere.
he could till the earth and i would pick him flowers.
he could till the earth and i would pick him flowers.
i would pick him flowers anywhere.
but, i might drive love into the tilled ground.

violent truth (part ii)

i say these things with the greatest conviction:
love should be compelling,
and it should heal, and give rise
to our best intended selves,
unintended by ourselves.
but jealousy is like a seed
that cain planted in me
long before he murdered abel.
love should call us to the greater things,
the greatest things.
it should make me move.
but, cowardly shirks started as soon
as i was bound to eve, draped in ivy
waiting for adam who cowered away.
love beckons me to the valley
and shows me the work to be done.
the violent truth is an echo in my stomach
as i sit in the belly of a whale,
joined by jonah, as we refuse to care.
the violent truth devastates my hopes
in the goodness of our souls.
i tend not to see your face,
it's too hard to look away from my own.

violent truth (part i)

it's hard to write when the world is grey.
last night, passion undulated in me
like the tempest only a few hours northeast.
i want to live in the sea.
violent waves whipping around me
and turbulent winds making me deaf.
i want to fall to the bottom of the ocean
and collect old bones wrapped
in diamonds that won't decompose.
i am most at home in the middle of bones.
i walk through the collected mound and
tremble with trepidation.
and my passion gets the best of me.
YOU ARE NOT DEAD YET.
your name is not forgotten,
it is not destroyed,
you are not the whore
to be left on the corner of the street
in the middle of january
shivering in the first snow storm.
the truth is violent
it tears apart everything that I am comfortable
believing. but, death is not life.
call me the bone collector.
call me the resurrector.
call me a daughter
who brings flowers to forgotten sisters and sons.

cain & abel

in the role play, i always play cain.
am i my brother's keeper?

This Much I do Remember

I'm fairly sure only two people read this. I just went to look at art with them. And, I thought maybe they would love this, considering this is the sort of moment we wish for, on our luckiest of occasions.

'This much I do Remember'

It was after dinner.
You were talking to me across the table
about something or other,
a greyhound you had seen that day
or a song you liked,

and I was looking past you
over your bare shoulder
at the three oranges lying
on the kitchen counter
next to the small electric bean grinder,
which was also orange,
and the orange and white cruets for vinegar and oil.

Alll of which converged
into a random still life,
so fastened together by the hasp of color,
and so fixed behind the animated
foreground of your
talking and smiling,
gesturing and pouring wine,
and the camber of you shoulders

that I could feel it being painted within me,
brushed on the wall of my skull,
while the tone of your voice
lifted and fell in its flight,
and the three oranges
remained fixed on the counter
the way that stars are said
to be fixed in the universe.

Then all of the moments of the past
began to line up behind that moment
and all of the moments to come
assembled in front of it in a long row,
giving me reason to believe
that this was a moment I had rescued
from millions that rush out of sight
into a darkness behind the eyes.

Even after I have forgotten what year it is,
my middle name,
and the meaning of money,
I will still carry in my pocket
the small coin of that moment,
minted in the kingdom
that we pace through every day.

- Billy Collins

quitting.

i gave up trying to cover it up
at night, i sit in my slip to feel delicate
and let the satin smooth my skin,
it's soft you know.
gave up trying to hide
that i smoke at night,
don't even open the window anymore.
i will, later.
i have to. have to exhale something out of me
it's ashy and reserved and too self-aware
to make any pleasant conversation with strangers.
i used to love strangers.
the thrill of their touch at night
in my slip, translucent and soft.
they always found me at night.
in the corners of the church yard and the grave yard.
this slip drapes over a grave yard.
i was only twelve when it started.
fifteen when i quit.
seventeen when i started.
she was dying and he was killing himself
so i jumped out the window
to lay on the roof and see the night a different way
eighteen when i fell in love.
he led me up green fields
and told me i'd done wrong.
tried to save me but only ended up doing wrong.
twenty-one now, in twenty three days.
i shiver and my teeth chatter.
go back eleven years,
retrace my steps. hardened, hardened.
i rub out the calluses but the keep coming back,
too much returns in the waves of fear
and i am overcome.
didn't know i was so easily impressed
by fingertips and whiskers.
didn't know i was so sensitive.
words leave echos that keep resounding
after they've all left.
distance makes them faint
but when it's midnight i'm kept awake by the
whispers of the night.
won't hide it anymore,
though there are fewer than ever
who hear the secrets that run wild
in my ever pressing thoughts.
i'm still sitting in my tent,
looking through the old memories
and trying to heal.
his comfort is warm, stilling, gentle,
leading me in and out and
he doesn't mind the smell
or disregard of obligation.
he used to cover my roads with
rose petals, but these days he's changed
his tactics.
keeps me guessing, keeps me longing.
i'm keeping myself open with addictives and
simple prayers. i have come this far.
don't let go of me now.
don't let go of me now.

oak tree

i lost my red and gold ribbon in the very top of the old charter oak.
will you find it, tie my hair back, twirl me in a new dance?

garments

i don't remember much from twelve years ago.
there is, of course, the sweet smell of sex
that ran up and down my navel and gathered pools
in my clavicle.
there are also the bells of laughter that
rang every hour before the children came in
to sleep.
but that was so long ago, only distant thoughts
to help pass the time.
i remember the first day that the bleeding
didn't stop, the second, third...
i can recall the first week, the second, third...
and still the first month, the second, third...
it wasn't until the third that the yelling began.
my fault, my fault.
must have been dirty, it must be from him.
i remember the first hit, the second, third...
and there were times that i thought i would
black out, but from pain or loss
i cannot be sure.
surely i thought i would die of shame.
after the first year, the second, third
it all seems to go a blur.
there were twelve, i can be sure of it.
i counted the hours like i counted the years.
in my ears echoed scorn, scorn, scorn.
i didn't have to pretend-
a stench of death overtook any lingering sweetness
my clavicle rotting, my navel undone.
i became undone.

hope drained along with the rest of me.
doctors had no cure and only
dirty bandages to cover dirty secrets.
i have not looked into the depth of an iris in twelve years.
i have not touched the back of hand,
nor felt the warmth of two.
twelve years is a long time, too long
to be without fumbling fingertips
falling down my spine.
i lived in the wishing well,
and ran out of wishes to be well.
the pints are leaving and i am dying.
desire feels like mocking despair
calling out into my window.
arise again and be forgotten!
arise again and be ashamed!
and i comply.
i am not alive anymore,
the sinking thoughts of i need this now
i was not ready to die, to give it all away
i was not ready to be done.

on the old, back road i see
the clouds of dust encircle and circle above.
the crowd is too messy to be a caravan.
i only see the town when its dusk and i
slip in and out. never to be seen.
the riot is growing and cheering.
son of david, have mercy on me.
messiah, messiah, messiah...
i came. i couldn't not come,
i came quickly quivering and tripping over
my old feet. and soon i was thrown to
the ground in the crowd.
face filled with dirt and still hiding
and crawling.
just get me to him.
my heart ached when i saw his cloak.
his face was easy to forget, at first glance.
it blended and blurred like a symphony.
arms barely extended, just touch his cloak.
be near me damnit and wrap your cloak
around me and i know you would.
just touch his cloak. just be near his breath.
it would wash me.

it washed me. it washed me like
purified lotus petals and the stem
cut through years of petrified dead weight.
the rush of release flooded me. it started
in my fingertips and ran into my veins
down through my navel and dammed the
flow and i was awake.
breathing halts ecstasy and he stopped.
who touched me?
who touched you? cover my face in dirt,
i am only dirt. i can only steal what i don't deserve
and i swear he'll take it back.
he turned and i fumbled to stand.
i could see the lines on his face.
and memorized the lines on his face.
and he stared into the depth of my iris
until i collapsed back into the dirt
scraped my knees and coughed
apologies.
i only needed your touch.

daughter, he spoke in his cedar voice.
his hands, more recongnizable still than his face,
held my tears. tenderly he lifted my recovering
body, never breaking his gaze.
daughter, you have been healed.
go now in peace.

oh just words

i don't know what to do so i don't do much
of anything.
remember to breathe, my dear
and remember that the days are
shorter in our memories.
don't know what to think so i don't do
it anymore.
only feel that warmth of promises
and we remember that we were
not born to fail. wish he
would remember he's not born to fail.
children are so angry when
they are sad or tired or feeling
the loss of a father's fingertips.

hidden, repeat.

when i am with
her in the secret
gardens of secret covers
i want her heart to melt
into milk and honey
and weep away all of the pain.
years of believing wrong
words over wrong lives.
and i like it when she
spills and i can carefully
scoop her into mugs
to serve back to her as hope.
i like to be strong.
i like to be strong.
but when i am with her
and traps and thorns
find us in the bushells
and nettles of the ground
that was cursed and the
womb that was made bare
and the hands that blister
and my heart is stone.
but she finds the point
and i respond and it doens't
matter i will fall.
doesn't matter i will be
what will become of me.
what will become of me?
old seamstress in the dark
spinning tales of youth
when hope and love
felt more like right.
more like life.
and i may live in the shadows
of dull shame
except that i am determinned
to keep her in. but
i am not stong.
i am not strong.

six a.m.

it takes too many minutes to get to six a.m.
the clock ticks.
the heart breaks.
i am afraid.
it takes too many confessions to get to six a.m.