To those of us who know love is both trying and triumphant:
My fiance and I stayed up past midnight with our flashlights and read the first five sections of
It felt like camping; like a secret.
I can remember loving poetry all my life. I remember loving the intricate lace of language. The taste and tecture of words. But this was the first time I shared it with someone that way.
I am certain now that poetry is meant to be shared in love, lamented in loss, raised up and out of our throats in heightened states so that we may see the light in it: the spaces between each and every vowel waiting to be wrenched open.
a poem for my love which has yet to present a title:
I popped your epiphany
in my mouth—for safe keeping
I didn’t want to loose it
so I spoke it every moment
you were away//such a long while
oh cannibal—nibbling you loose
with my tongue\\when simply we dis
solved one onto the other
I touched my thumb to each of my
fingers to prove I was awake and you
said over and over that we would never
come apart now—not now not ever—but I
had known that all along.
for a dear friend struggling with her young-voids, a poem for inspiration, or perhaps just proof that we are all the same.
Maybe for a long while—
a sense of waiting, of bone loss
of time on lines running through our bodies
together rolling on a wild hushed open
I had hopes of closure before…
the long wide brush which cups the desert
and makes us whole. It’s never too soon to ration
our matches. Never too early to siphon our love.
I had known of secret rituals—bringing back the dead
young lies we knew so helplessly wrong,
and yet, some other afterlife
was always better-still
Hey poets. School has been kicking my bum! Hope to write more soon…
A woman came in to the library today and needed help printing her poems as gifts. They were simple but I was inspired by her blissful writer-glow. I need to write more, in a small way it’s more important than anything else
In case of wax flowers
know this—we are well thread
in the eyelashes of all things &this
hardly a coincidence we have
the same hair—espresso except
in summer, forever lovelier remembered
heavier with time, unfolded over and over
hollow quiet space which I filled w/ sleep-signs
ah-feather-be we wander wishful, pinkytied
something humble this way grows
from the earth we come wide-eyed except
in summer, when our mouths are open &this
is the quietest place we can be: together
holding out for rain