writings
The Soles of My Feet
My fierce fist of a heart
Won’t let you in to steal
The puzzle pieces of sanity
I have savaged from a life before.
The ones I hid in
The back of the hall closet,
The pockets of my dress,
The safe recesses of the sheets.
The deep cave of my imagination.
Don’t make me question what
Is right or wrong in this way
I am living. All you need to do
Is wave a hand as I pass by
And watch the soles of my feet
As I continue on.
Following Chance
I hesitate to ask where
We are headed.
To tap Chance on the shoulder
Seems like such an intrusion,
A doubting that would be frowned
Upon and an asking that
Would take more confidence
Than mine. There is a wickedness to
Her as she purses her wine-stained lips
But I’d follow her anywhere.
So she rarely looks back
To see if I am on her reckless
Path. She knows I can’t resist
The refraction of light
Off the sequins of her dress.
The Fox and the Raven
Whatever do you mean? Asks the fox
Of the raven as they travel across a
Dying desert. Whatever do you mean
That we will never catch the horizon,
That we will run out of room,
That we are not as chosen as we think?
The raven is silent. The message
Delivered. She glides on the winds
And counts herself lucky in this moment.
A Matter of Aim
At most I can only
Manage a polite rage.
That slips out under
The closed door of my
Bedroom. Where I howl
Into pillows on the behalf
Of others. The subtle ways
Of killing a witch.
We all curl our toes
these days, feeling the flames
That are heating the sharp knife
We keep between our breasts.
We are beyond patience.
The waiting is now
Just a matter of aim.
This isn’t a warning
Because you wouldn’t listen
Anyway. Our voices don’t reach
Your sensibilities. But our
Rage has been heated
And tendered.
And that, my friend,
You will feel.
The Currency of Love
What is the currency of love
These days. It is a quick kiss
Behind closed doors or
A slow spin around the dance floor
While you contemplate the
Plus and minuses in your bank
Account. Is it an unexpected
Cure and proof of concept that
Anything can be beautiful in
The right light and temperature
Of touch. Is it a matter of tendering
Over time until you know your worth.
Is it the perfect white dress at the party
Where the invitation is only for you
And you address the crowd with
A small smile and upward tilt
Of your chin. And a lockbox of
Mixed secrets in your closet
Behind the ironing board and
Row of shoes you never wear.
