I am trying to coax my eyes
into blinking your penmanship.
I want to be devastated if we are
swallowed by the sun.
How do shrimp
perpetuate in their
current space, I ask
your tectonic back
in the morning,
How do they hold
the oppressive blue,
the silky maws over their
thrumming ridges,
sickle-shaped strength
“Hard to separate the past from the present. This noose tells me we’re still dealing with the past.”
Read More
sweet unbecoming
and becoming, ravelling and
unravelling, hand woven womb
shifts, water breaks, gushes
like blood
All my knowledge is not enough to stop dead men
from reaching out for a handful. On this head,
wildflowers grow in surplus. Dead men with soft hair
reach out and try to pluck at my head for flowers to
lay at their graves.