ships passing in the night: we are not close enough to pass. we are ships in different oceans, different times, and hemispheres. regardless of my desire to control the helm, i am drawn to the south. towards you.
even when I feel the splintering force of my own personal kraken spirit sucking tentacles, drain me still i look for the crux
even when i feel the wind, taste the salt stained air, i feel i am in the brig with a heart stationed in the crow’s nest wishing for one glimpse of your bow
but who can love this heart of mine when I have shared with so many? they have supped me like alter wine, but who can love this heart of mine? peel back my skin, find me supine, an illicit taste, a penny. but who can love this heart of mine when I have shared with so many?
i’m scared of everything these days: the sudden dark when closing my eyes the summer rain swell of the river, rushing against the muddy banks the buzzing of important bees outside my window the moving of hands over soft curves
i tell myself, over and over: that light is just an eye flutter away my house, and little family, is safe on the hilltop those bees need pollen, they don’t want to sting the hands that trace my curves love me
but these days… the fear tears at my lungs its tiny, needle claws leaving imperceptible...
babes with anger do not exist. independent thought comes later. tiny brains absorb without miss, babes with anger do not exist. silver spoons and hate in their fists, forged by their earthly creator. babes with anger do not exist. independent thought comes later.
because she was so exhausted she closed her eyes to the pale earth her hands trembled, in tears frosted because she was so exhausted her red, beating heart accosted the bleak time had come to give birth because she was so exhausted she closed her eyes to the pale earth
early morning porch sitting before the chaos cigarette while flicking thin pages gleaning morality she closes her eyes the weight of her tiny world piles onto minimum wage shoulders into growling SNAP belly
blessed are the poor in spirit
her baby can’t play t-ball. registration takes away from rent she shouldn’t have said “we’ll have to see,” two weeks ago when she already knew. was his hope worth it?
last night: hot tears running streaks down dirty cheeks ...
almost lovers our feeble hands crashing against our faithfulness even when my thumbs are desperate aching, even… to brush your eyelids trace the line of your lips feel the corners turn upward as our first taste turns to smiles
she walks impossibly slow tattered umbrella perched sagging shoulders even at this distance her wrinkles have wrinkles the undeniable old age shuffle dirty parking lot rain soaked slippers not a car in sight
“someone should help her,” escapes my lips and i close the blinds