Category: Poetry

Hell flickers  in the throats of fallen birds. Dust on tongues,  how long must we wait for ashes? 

But consider the nests he made. They are like words shaped by the body which inhabits them, plaited with grass and twigs, with twine, blue ribbon, with shreds of paper.

You begin to grow drowsy, but the once velvet sleep you took for granted no longer flowers into peaceful dreams.

Rusted through, the stoveheart of this house. The television glows in cancer blue, and floorboards gently stain the kitchen red.

Look at us now with our bludgeoned hands held like empty weapons to the stars.

Finished ironing, I emptied extra water onto cement, reluctant to climb stairs back into claustrophobic caregiving.

Every time it rains, the foxes pull apart                with their claws a rainbow and commence a procession through it, walking on               all fours to the town square for a wedding.

If one / could slough pain, let wind come.