an ornamental ode

the fall
from grace.

the refusal
of the gilded cage.

a choice.

but i take responsibility
for this.

for the apple cores
lined up like defiant soldiers.

my ornamental ode
to free will.

to thread them on string

memories
imprinted and collected like still lifes
framed by the significance we attach to each.

the scene:
the lovers. homeward bound.

and the sun
sliding down behind mountains
turning the sea molten amber like the water caught fire.

i plait the loose threads

~ i plait the loose threads crushed against pink drying to a powdery white.
~ day comes. the stars are rendered obsolete behind the sun consumed by blue.
~ in this bed your sleeping body forms the shape of a question mark in places touching mine like the answer.
~ the contours of bodies the coastlines of sacred worlds.
~ the willingness with which you offer yourself to my hands. the gift of surrender.
~ from the street below a patchwork of conversations dance their way through the open window.
~ tread carefully. an open envelope spills love onto the floor.

miscellanies

i open my window even on the coldest morning.
moving through the world the world moves in me.
i am a woman most days. but the girl never left.
i rarely make promises. but when i do -
trust me.

i love to read your face with my fingers.
i take the scenic route. almost always.
mapping your body as the landscape it is
i tuck it safe between ribs.
i feel the blood in my veins. and sing.
badly
...but still.

i have a penchant for giants.
regardless of physical height.
write small cartographies in order
that i might understand and remember.
because i am scared of forgetting.
i feel the recurring symbols
of my interior world etched into bones.

i love the fat full bud of a peony
before it bursts into bloom. i love
the metallic scent old coins leave on hands.
i am possessed. by a hunger.
the kind i never want sated.

in more than just the gentle hours

in more than just the gentle hours with their careful clocks
and looks of knowing, but the ones that are less clean
and sharp edged too, i ask of you to make a home in my navel.

*

the warm air clouds the mirror revealing a note to ourselves.
a confession. a reminder of our inclination to speak in prayers.

*

love is massive.

like the music of the spheres. maybe

there are times when lying in bed i swear
i hear the ticking of a clock.

only there is no clock.

i can pin point the exact location
from which the sound quietly emanates
despite it's source
remaining stubbornly hidden.

curiously, im not certain
it's purpose is to measure time,
but to keep the rhythm.

only audible when my body is parallel
to the ground it feels
like a forever reminder of a before.
a pulse that will continue to throb even after...

nocturnal revelations

as the light penetrates these dirty windows i wonder with what eyes i see these recurring dreams. nocturnal revelations calling me to remove the layers and show more than the simple muscle of the heart. but to cut it open and bare it's contents. the strength of each vertebrae synchronously exposed.

i want to eat them. the flowers

i want to eat them. the flowers.
pull them one at a time
from the purple glass
and savour the taste.
the combination of red and green.

instead i lie here watching
the lights moving across my ceiling.

all day the ashen sky marbled.
and moving through swirls of energy
i silently willed you to bring your gods.
to unknot these riddles and listen.

my skin is singing to be touched.

a study in white

what strikes me is the way
we justify the failures
because it's easier
to say it's complicated.

except it isn't. not really..

language, and the
representation of words
for feelings, often lacks
in it's accuracy of expression.

truth
is an interpretation of definites.
a matter of internal (mis)connections.

to scratch the surface
is to start. to master the art
of the non-verbal ancient tongues
is to begin.

what's required
is a fusion of both, with heart,
to penetrate these bodies of glass
possessed with the tendency to cloud
in parts opaque

and broaden perspectives
enough to understand.

non omnis moriar

these empty rooms,
if they were to break
into a thousand tiny pieces
would fit into my cupped hands
and i would eat.
the way diego consumed frida.
in death and life. burning.

and the root-fingers torn
from the shifting ground would cling
somewhere that wasn't mine
leaving all that was
to speak in a language
lacking ambiguity.

the sun would crown
your noble head as it always did
beneath a changing sky
whose clouds are forever
in conspiracy with feelings.

and if not now
then looking back we'd know
the dancing was exquisite.




*



"non omnis moriar"
(i shall not completely die)
~ attributed to horace

"The dove's my will today.."

"..Mad in the wind I wear
Myself as I should be,.."

~ from WORDS FOR THE WIND by Theodore Roethke

walls. and what's written there

i could draw a map of how we ended up here.
impress under glass my fingerprints
for you to remember the ghost of their touch.

the taste of blood fills the mouth.
black widow solitary picking meat off bones.
picking up pieces.

no promises made of a picture always pretty.
but more.
more primal. raw and real. i feel it all.

and love.
it rages.