I am the woman in white
embellished by thorns
and dangling dead birds
absorbing fresh blood
welcoming cats
and monkeys
while the flowers fl y
and the butterflies rest
in my hair watching as I
Hold my own hand on bus
benches beneath
impending storms
sharing life with scissors
and miniature memories
spilling on wedding dresses
where the birds nestle
and rest and nap
Where I rest on hospital
beds soaked in my child
shedding tears for flying
snails and the machinery
of life, picking flowers,
facing reality, doing the
math, feeling alone
Although the knowledge
that he’s on my mind
is both comforting
and frustrating causing
third or fifth eyes to
blink causing this hair
to fall down stiff shoulders
As tears plant seeds
for family trees flipping
through photo albums,
but I’m not quite there
walking tall within blue
courtyards
standing naked and
fearless watering
cacti with sperm
piecing it all together
like red ribbon
Weaving like improvisational
bobsleds whilst earning
empathetic understanding
one arrow at a time as
toes turn to hooves and
ears become antlers
realizing the target is
I, and they are doing well
But hands hang from
ear lobes and thorns hang
from necks foregrounding
silver leaves shining
like chrome reflecting
in the sun, praying on rain
to keep these flowers
alive and well
In the desert where
grounds crumble at my
feet and roman columns
separate my breasts
adhering skin
to bones
to nerves
with needles sealing
pain with tears and tight
bandages while what
is left of my privacy
blows with patriotic fl air
And these grounds continue
to crumble showing no
sign of life aside from one
drop of milk embracing
me and mine
Like fresh bed sheets
sewn with orange thread
woven in ivy as mirror
reflections of what is
to come rests over head
embracing flowers
Only before one more meal –
So unveil the curtains
and watch as I dance like
Jesus with puppets giving
this all my weight
ensuring this tablet
doesn’t run away
From fresh cut lettuce
giving birth
to opportunity and
light, but
Confused by identity crisis
slipping on my best pink
dress waving flags, building
temples made of steam
offering fruit built on the
mechanics of sound
Ringing true
Gazing with mouths open
as stars fall through cloudy
skies making way for
tombs and golden brick
roads leading nowhere but
down embraced by mist
landing in morning papers
read in Manhattan to
the sound of coffee to
the flip of the page but
the image bleeds through
When the girl soaks in
patterns distracting you
from a subtle change
in breeze above
Mayan ruins finding two
moons yet still managing
to lie awake, lost and alone,
in this wet desert
overwhelmed with the reign
of odorous oil –
Wait! –
If you’re trying to kill me
at least lynch these two
dresses along side so that
I may have a change of
clothes
for the sweat of hell
as my heart washes ashore
ready to burst
like a rotting whale
Ready to come down now
ready to open up ready
to carve holes in my chest
for the ivy to thrive
and find solace
finding comfort
in finding purpose
so I let my hair down
for a second
Only to learn that he killed
her with 1000 knives...
Balancing deformity with
obesity with skeletal infra-
structure keeping
us together in a land of
monochrome homes and
dirt and sand but the piñata
hangs high so
FUCK!!!
the disparity let’s take
shots and revel in this sun’s
existence so
FUCK!!!
this broken spine let’s
dance and lay sore in the
morning – it will all be
worth it
As long as this watermelon
stays moist and this owl
stays wise
As long as I welcome milk
from the breast of this dark
stranger trying desperately
not to let go and not to
swallow foreign hairs
Whilst gazing into the eyes
of this dark stranger,
posing for thy own self
from this horizontal home,
sinking in cloth,
waiting for death to awaken
this new form of being,
waiting for the fl ame
to dance alongside
a cool breeze,
Waiting
To kiss him goodbye.