Feeding the creatures...

My partner in most things interesting has picked up her pen again
And I like writing with her, next to her, about her, so. Maybe it's time to revive the poetry portion of this blog again. That's where the creatures live, anyway.

I'm 100% sure nobody really reads my blog. Anyway here's a sassy poem.


The quiet of your bedroom,
or the hush of fresh snow
on a meadow or an abandoned lot
between two looming
city buildings at 3 am.

The way your skin tastes,
salt, a kalamata olive, after night
and the way we tangle like sweaty hair,
breath at the nape of your neck.

The way you punctuate your sighs
like the dropped fragments of
Sappho's lost volumes, or thunder
that rolls up from your stomach
and slips out in a jaw-clenched growl.

The way young women speak with
a flip at the end of their sentence, a question on pointe,
like we don't know how this will end
but breathless, stumbling, we find our way.

Concentric

The ground has been root-soaked
three weekends already, this spring.
I haven't dug my toes in the mud, yet.

In which I ramble on about my mother's winter flowers

on mom’s dining room table

It wasn’t an expensive bowl, a
full moon, with a crater surface
of pebbles layered with water.

The new paper white roots barely
bruised as they dug slowly to the
concave surface of the bottom.

Forced shoots poked up through
the bulb, inevitable, as light strikes
out from a lampshade at night.

Edit:

A full moon, a crater surface
of pebbles layered with water,
It wasn’t an expensive bowl.

The new paper white roots barely
bruised as they dug slowly to the
concave surface of the bottom.

Forced shoots poked up through
the bulb, inevitable, as light strikes
out from a lampshade at night.

Turned to Stone

I have always loved your bird's nest,
snap curling twigs, your egg bald spot,
even when it was a nest of snakes.

Blanket Flowers

cradled toes weeded in dirt
huddled shoulder to shoulder,
their bending spines
back against smooth back

Get in the practice

Surprise gladiolas came in

during the end of our 3 month

3 digit July heat wave

Spiked gladiators sprawled

and thrived in the sweat

Car Poem [WIP]

You and I chase the fingers West
towards home
They curve into the moon
Grasping at beams, out of reach

Let me have a lost day [WIC]

Let me seep through
the floor boards into
the grain and flow right
on through the knots

Untitled [WIP]

I roll you under my tongue
a Southern Rock Python,
I start at your toes and work
my way up your thighs, I drag
my teeth in lines from your ankles
to your nestled clavicle

Passion [wip]

Passion

I’m uncomfortable with the word-.
It lacks meat, it lulls in juice, it falls flat
It’s not a steak, thick on the tongue, breaking
hot against the back of my throat, a tender,
twist of tendrils and muscle.
I can’t rip into it, gnashing teeth against flesh,
pushing it against the roof of my mouth
The preferred word is- as in rioting
as in London is burning in the riots as in
Did you buy mace, bear mace, not weak rape
mace because I am so hungry, so hungry
that my hands are shaking down to the ground
and I am so hungry.