Winter Lament
grief isn’t rational—
that’s why we celebrate births—
when everyone dies
but firebrand wolves
remember
ivy robed trees,
now there is snow
on my illicit boots,
while rage burns
inside/out
melting the majestic
winter vine.
Wish You Were Here
this neglected thing—
a sticky confection
a catatonic echo
a shadow perverted
a sizzling keepsake—
in the mortuary
will no man offer water?
Dirty Love
as I am
a woman made of clay
or fog or sky gouging
the formation of the sun
meat is strange
like kisses uncensored
harnessing the greys
searching for the perfect blues
buried deep
meeting your layered words
a gleaming knuckle
hunting for pulsing fabric
once celestial
photographing the
monkey on a stick
the sounds we will not hear
the sights we cannot see
guilt and fear share a succulent rhythm
waiting for the space
between
sapphire-infused
diaphanous diversion
in and of your
delayed gratification
feel it thicken and sicken