There is no more fine line. I built a rock garden there. Queen Mab sends kind regards bequeathed it all a holy place, one of sanctity and magic. I am here grounding my aching feet deep in the earth and she welcomed me so all the trees say my name among others. There is no … Continue reading I am brand new and marvelous
My pen is a hammer. I hold the nails in my mouth. I spent years building my own coffin. I took the measurements and planned what my obituary would read. My pen in a hammer I want to smash in the faces of men. Father let me down. Told me I was to blame. and … Continue reading This Pen Mine
I wish I met you once, we both drunk. I would place my finger just above the bridge of your nose and put it in my mouth thinking a woman could sweat art the way she does loss or tequila. I'll bring the red string. You will bring the shears.
Recipe for pickled eggs Today my brain is a pickled egg Floating, isolated Inside my skull. My thoughts taste of vinegar. My mouth the mason jar lid. In the night I was boiled Three hours later Cooled and peeled. You must imagine how this feels. How raw A shell removed Fed to the garbage disposal. … Continue reading
Me. The pen. The humbling acceptance of the blank page. The most performative thing about writing with pen/pencil and paper are the ink smudges caught inside the deepening lines of your hand, the growing callous inside your middle finger.
I am not mellowing. I was told I would. I would grow more conservative, I would forgive and forget. Or that if I did not do as it was decreed- soften, bend more here and there, become more quiet- I would be bitter. And I believed them. Don't let the bitter get me. Surely it … Continue reading I am not mellowing
The above is a contender for the cover design of a collection of poems I hope to publish in the spring of 2018. My emotions canvass everything from fear to exaltation to giving into this luminous desire I have to share this collection of approximately thirty-five poems. I began writing the poems in the summer … Continue reading Works In Progress
It comes on like the summer you had your first period . This small moment when all of a sudden you realize you're a woman, not a girl. Those sanguine roles of youth are no longer yours and it's setting a weight down. Learning to dance from the balls of your feet up. Standing barefoot … Continue reading Women of a Certain Age
I have given it a name. The Bleak this beast it bites and in its bullets are coffin nails. Those nails I hear them crying this sad work. This goodbye . This ready fear and hate that wants to consume. Will it stop for nothing? On it savages and we are groping because we are … Continue reading Mourning Song