the prophet and the poetess i dissolve into my elements my seeds and singing, fear and flowers and in whispers i weave gold thread from a haystack. inspiration is meaningless. my hands craft their desires guiltlessly. on the other side of the river, a prophet offers potions, selling shame that tastes like scripture on whiskey-painted lips not unfamiliar. like cold clenched fists bursting the soft sunset-redness of a peach. i worship the sanctity of the fruit before i bother with prophecies or potions too bitter to swallow, sugar and sinfulness bound in red threads like potions like prayers which bear no horns but yield too many seeds. too many secrets. i crack the pits one by one. and the grass grows in the field and dries in the sun. the wheel turns and in your song the prophet sees the shimmering of something so beautifully unforgivable. mother of all things i can never forget the morning that sent me into the light, cursing the unforgivable fury of alarm clocks, the cruel dance of bath robes & shower shoes, the stab of a mascara wand into my right eye, the unjust exodus that fit the fairytale. you saw me there in the garden, my grief a wedding gown i married every day because at least one of us kept our promises. the man caught my wrist and it bruised and now you know who ate the fruit. now you know why i line up lavender pills in that plastic box, why i take my tea with a teaspoon of vinegar. now you know why they lay me bare on that white table. why i am unable to get up break apart the rocks to say i am not yet or no longer dead. The Voice in the Temple We are all scarred and there’s nothing romantic about it but we are still beautiful. I used to feel defiled when hands left their mark on my skin, as if everyone could see the fingerprints, now I feel holy in the arms that hold me. If this body is a temple, my wrists are the sacred pillars withstanding so many crusades against this soul and you and I we are the humble pilgrims searching for sanctuary. We do not leave our fingerprints on the walls. We leave the rooms in better condition than we found them. I am no saint, but I know what worship is it is praising God by holding His children without leaving bruises on their backs. It is the way you fold me into your arms, gently, carefully, almost reverently, as if you are afraid of breaking me, as if I am worth putting back together. The Art of Staying I have been both. The leaver and the left behind. I have watched old “best friends” fall like sand between my fingers, strong bonds and good times too good, too quickly over. I have faded into memories and candle wax, into purple smoke that curls above matches, that settles unbidden into dreams. I see everything. Bonfires and futures we discussed like they were certain, all the love we had, that we thought we had, that we lost. I feel so intensely that at times I must feel nothing at all. I love and I let go. Pull in and push away. Old memories turn to ghosts turn into monsters that remind us the people we keep in our hearts are not the same people we see in the hallways, remind us we aren’t always the ones we see in bathroom mirrors. And you can know that one day things are supposed to get better, but how do you stay when you see façades instead of faces, how do you accept love when you could swear you don’t deserve it? young lover i always knew i wanted to stumble into love in
the early stages of bloom, a mid-spring peach-sweet not-quite-ripe sort of season. i was too green all clammed up but with the fresh innocence of morning like dewdrops glistening in constellations across scar-marked forehead too dangerously adolescent so awkwardly elegant and new. i wanted the backseat kind of secret cherry red and delightfully sour sugared up with youthful confection poems you pluck from unsuspecting pomegranate grins. bite the seed. bide your time. strike softly while the iron is hot. i blossomed upstairs outside my father’s house before the tides got in the way i’ve had my share of warnings all in blushing shades of scarlet. still all i’ve learned from Proserpine is eat the seed and spit the wine; summer wanes and heat resigns.
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