Tag Archives: original

When She Had You

The wind was never strong enough

to knock her down,

like thunder in a storm

She balanced between the precipice,

the moment before the rain,

when she had you.

The night rolled in with the cold,

crisp and dark, a good bottle of red.

She let the evening take her in its arms

and spin and spin and spin

until she couldn’t remember if she was a star

or the milky way;

either way she knew she wasn’t lonely

anymore—her body drifting and warm,

the smell after it rains. And it wasn’t raining,

just dark and different,

the stars still there, the moon still up.

The same as when she had you.

Tornado in My Bath

There was a tornado in my bath today.

It flipped the room upside down

and shook it until the toilet was gone

and then the sink, the towels, the soap

falling into the sky one by one

my little cooing doves

and only walls remained.

It moved to our bedroom and stole my mother’s

hairpiece before turning to snatch the TV

dragging the black licorice cord along the side of the wall

it seized my sister’s illegal marijuana

and my brother’s brand new paint set

and my favorite AC/DC poster.

It swiveled through the hallway

down the stairs up the stairs

in the crawl-space behind the door

it went under the bed in the covers

it swept the kitchen clean

and came back

looking for water to turn

and turn and turn but there was none.

You and The Mountain

I search for you on the wind

the wind shimmering up the west peak

the mountain exhales snow in bursts of white

until I stand alone waiting for the avalanche

he brushes my cheek and it’s ice

I am not standing there anymore

You are the avalanche

the snow the mountain breathes

in and I fall into your

sharp ice embrace

until all that is left of me is you

and the mountain breathes


Aurora Borealis

I want to paint you a picture,

a picture of a woman,

a woman who reached for the Northern Lights

and accidentally became them.

She discarded her dust-ridden dregs

with their old habits and rags,

she ripped out pages that stank of resentment

and released empty anger that lingered

on the edges. She culled the overripe

and cut down the decayed, an emancipation of self.

The freedom was sweet and juicy as she bit into it,

the nectar spilling down her chin onto the freshly turned soil.

Her manumission was an amalgamation

of a misguided horoscope and a spark,

a light that shot into the air

and rained down thunder and ice.

She raised her eyes to the heavens and they stared back

in wonder at the way she moved,

a woman wooed by wanderlust.

Bright in the stark contrast of the night,

they mistook her for a shooting star

and plucked her from the earth,

up up up, a dance of soul to sky

an emancipation of self,

legs outstretched with pointed toes

she rose into the air, hair caught up

in the wind, mouth captured in a kiss with the moon

and the Spirits of the North rejoiced

with fire and drums, flames casting her body

into shadow, a silhouette against the darkness

she spun with the heavens, flickering into transparency.

She was a blood diamond and a dream,

the mythology of nations. Yellow and gold

she shone over high hills and sunken valleys,

a whisper of strength in the night,

that ancient promise of redemption.


The crown was lead in your hands

its gold melting into sand that slipped through the cracks

of your petrified heart onto mine,

a lost child, terrified in the desert.

Open wounds and old sores,

I used my pain to paint dark ink across the page,

a silent plea for strength I thought I had

when the night came to take me away;

But candles go out and fire burns to ash,

and my strength is earned.

I am the phoenix from your fairy tales,

but I do not rise for you,

Gold and red, lightening and fire,

I am sharp and unforgiving,

the final blood diamond

alighting upon your brow.

Waiting for the Sky

She sits at their roots


for the sky to call her beautiful

her eyes hunting

for sunlight between

branches that hide the moon

as the wind winds its fingers

through her hair, pushing strands across her

skin in the pale glow

of a trembling forest

and she stands when the

oak trees begin to hum

a deep throaty sound

that envelops her in whispered dreams

of green grass and a white stag

leaving an ache in her bones

and water in her veins

it’s surface pulsating

with the sound and she can hardly bear

the weight of it, its tempo rising

louder and louder until she takes their

branches in her hands to dance

and they step, twirling with the rise

and falls of yesterdays and tomorrows

through the luminosity of stars

in the blaze of dawn, faster and faster

she is nothing but dust and golden cobwebs

their bodies bright with lightening and desire

and her hair is fire and her eyes rubies

the motions of her arms

fluid and diamond in the dark

the thrum of oak and pine

spinning tales of redemption and ruin

until all that is left

is ethereal and it will be enough.

It is



The body is on the pavement like pigeon shit,

splat against the concrete,

the blood pattern tight and clean

in a circle where the heart used to be,

now just empty space where a bullet

thought it would look for love.


On rainy days children jump in puddles

like these, the red wine their parents

drank at dinner splattered convincingly

across their chests,

stains growing across

the veins in their neck


until they too are flat on the pavement

like half-dried pigeon shit.