The layered leaves
Have turned away from me

Their veins shoot from
The brutal heart of thee

And when such veins
Crawl into the maple tree

It means ye turned away from me
And left my leaves to burn


Our Asteroids


The boy with the salt-and-pepper hair does not want to dig into my soul
and sleep in its hollows, like
the rose on the little prince’s asteroid.
Instead he asks naught
but what I think of what he said—
tells me only nonreligion binds us—
And I want to cry because

as I try

to move amongst his soul
he nibbles on my skin



Note: Originally written October 28th, 2014
      Edited February 20th, 2015




How Did You Lose Your Arm?

in the room there is a man and inside
this man is a pot of anger and inside
Pot of Anger is his sister’s boyfriend
beating her
and her child.

Within her is sadness
for the left arm she lost
when the elevator came down
to catch her but clenched it
instead. Now she raises
remainder   [of that elevator]
and her good arm

against his hot hands
but nothing happens—her limb/s




he was maxwell

In my father’s arms is a newborn boy
beautiful as God—
no: a softer, kinder beauty—
lamb’s ears
milk chocolate
cabbage butterflies and nets
that catch then let go…

He is stunning in his inhumanness—
a flushed piglet with a
torso like a crumpled bag of flour, and
fatly folded thighs that nestle
themselves into Daddy’s
aged skin
as he squeals…

He must be my child, my breath
was never more absent, or my eyes
and heart
so wet.

Bird / Boy

I know a boy whose hair lies like one coffee-colored bird—
the wings hang over his ears
and its large head-beak nestles into his brow,
murkising his forehead and eyes.
The bird stays still as the boy—so beautiful
he is an angel—
tells me he is untouched.

I blink. His full lips pale.
How is he a virgin?
I take off my blouse and reveal

And as I reach to brush the wing
behind his ear
(so as to touch his face),
the bird startles.
Worlds wake up—


Stunted wings
clip me,
as bird
boy rises

Together they lift off into nothing,
and I am left
with my blouse open

The Weight I Freely Carry

This is loosely what became of the Stream of Consciousness exercise I did a few weeks ago. I originally wrote this immediately after, but decided to edit it and approach the subject more positively. 


My thighs are fat as sows
Fat and white spreading over the toilet seat.
In between them is the red blood
almost like ribbons,
and the little clots that sink.

When I see this redness, I see my child-
Little girl in her friend’s bathroom after
a rush down there, a yell—
No more girl.
She is gone, replenished

with one who
loves her period,
will love the nine month absence of this gift
for a greater one,
will cry
when it is gone.

Sometimes I dip down
and smell the fresh blood
caught in my pad
and I think
This is me, This
Proof of what my body can do!
No man can carry this weight.
No man can feed a child from the inside.