Milk When I learned your mother hadn’t breastfed you, I wanted to do it. Having no milk, we would have to imagine it. “It tastes like moonlight,” I would say, feeling the silent warmth empty from my breast, a grown man suckling that long denied nourishment, a homecoming. [Meet the Moon | Christian Schloe]Read more "Milk"
Unbreaking The Vase After death spat me out of its dark belly— I had to learn how to breathe again, had to walk through the forest, willing my pain to drop through the soles of my feet into the dirt, the earth transmuting my troubles with its tender indifference. The wind has picked the sorrows […]Read more "Unbreaking The Vase"
Horses I know about the wild horses in your head. Your skin, that sings with the sandstorm of their manes. My pulse also gallops with their racing. The grasslands of my soul have been swept flat with the winds wept by their tails. My heart has been worn ragged by their hooves and I can […]Read more "Horses"
Distress Calls If you are sailing and need help, but have no flares or rockets on your ship, there is a signal of distress a person can perform physically. Stretch out both arms on either side of your body, then slowly raise and lower them repeatedly. Pretend you are a bird flying in slow […]Read more "Distress Calls"
January Month of poems. Bark, rain-stripped and grey. Tears of amber sap, of cold, frost and snow days when even the birds retreat. Winter hedges us along, the red berries bright against the rust-brown, moss-covered, lichen-mottled shades of January. We must be careful what we think about these days. We’re at the age now when […]Read more "January"
Cold Comfort I watched a deer standing in the snow— first star of evening caught in the branches of the pines. As dusk fell, its mate bounded into the clearing. They breathed into each other’s noses and I ached to be like them.Read more "Cold Comfort"
The Darkening Summer’s fruit is rotting. I will use it to fertilize my seeds. When the world terrorizes me, I will hold up the mirror & ask: How do I terrorize myself? My path is strewn with bones. I will make a flute to play! Is magic, then, all in your head? wondered the initiate. […]Read more "The Darkening"
Back From The Dead I wait, patient as leaves. You like to speak of pleasant topics, & keep the thicket of the heart unmentioned. My breasts have changed, their fullest moment wasted. We will have to make our peace, me & the skeleton, me & the hourglass. I cracked the ice, a blow that brought […]Read more "Back From The Dead"
When my grandmother got married strangers spit on her white dress as she left the cathedral, hissing Communist! When I was 12, I spit on my friend, a bubbly blob on her nose—her face, confused. I thought it would be funny. But what I felt was shame. Around the same age, on a Ferris Wheel, […]Read more "Spit"
I dream of missing planes, my mother’s ghost, dressed in cold weather clothes. We are in my grandfather’s closet, which, in the dream is a ballroom fallen into disrepair. I need to tell her she is dead, but when I ask if she wants me to be honest, she says: “Not if it’s something I […]Read more "Dream Sense"