When words were your only nourishment
I fed you calla lilies budding in my throat,
the shimmering wings of a thousand bees
thrumming walls of verse.
From the stacked shelves of your smoky library
I read to you Aristophanes,
of all poets we loved him best.
In the final hours
we longed for rippling wheat fields,
certain of life and death.
From a distance it is a lilliputian planet above a field of diamonds, chromatic lipped, dripping with stars from slumbering skies.
Photo by Heart
I feel you in the pouring rain
violent or soft as a summer breeze.
A bird in flight you disappear into
the pixels from which you came.
Bruises of the soul are slow to heal
but I have become indifferent to pain
as cold as that seems.
Decaying gardenias fill my rooms with mortality,
decomposing petals saturated in dark secrets
kept alive by the ferocity of desire.
They rhapsodize my dreams with the zephyr
of your sigh upon my skin.
We are a wasteland, all poetic breath died with us.
Now I long for the clean scent of fall,
the smell of earth infused in deep roots.
Swaying wind chimes clinging to the arm of a live oak,
synchronized resonance of soothing sounds
for the twilight hours.
I could convince you
that the world is
ambrosia for deities
dropped on our tongues
in syrupy slices while
we linger immortal
in Aristophanes’ veil
My lips are the arc of
a butterfly dripping thick
and golden adventures into your
As light as feathered birds
we resist the pull of gravity,
succumb to ruby filaments
where the only peril is a
paradise that may consume us.
It was my birthday. She did not come to the table. I brought cake to her on a paper plate. Accustomed to the dark, heavy tapestry hung at her window. I didn’t sit with her anymore, her suffering frightened me. Today I wore a new dress, I adored it’s lacy bodice and satin sash. He had picked it out himself. Later my grown up eyes dissolved in the pain on his etched face. A photo with an empty space dying in a dark room
That woman who spit me red faced into the world, fed and failed me, flung me from the hem of her skirt into the fractured world stares back at me from my mirror. I wear her hands like gloves and honor the rolling river where her ashes sunk among the gravel, worship the giant boulders that harbor her.
I am a lone chrysalis twisting in the wind, fluid bones press hard against its fragile casing. Swollen wings beat at the tight space that holds me. I am searching for a moral. These unheralded breasts, they defeat and yet complete me too. I know I am meant to struggle. I can’t see or hear nor would I heed signs of warning, a pubescent butterfly, excessively sanguine or melancholy I flit from flower to flower, oblivious to life’s repressive hand hovering above me.
il mondo de franco
You are more rare than
a bird of paradise.
Let me leave my mark
upon your feathers
soft as eider down.
On a widespread river
amid the perfume of damp flowers
sing to me a mock sinner’s lullaby
in return I offer you pearls
and the hollow at my throat.