Poet & Resource for the Poetry Community
I imagine her ribcage an icebox swollen with freezer burn; her heart— once a blooming geranium—glazed with dry frost, black with bite, the candlelight …
after Diane Lato
I wake to trees gone skeletal, frosted chrysanthemums, fits of ginger where the sky hangs, death of things glaring as sunbeam upon …
Say it: say that I am dead, and I’ll root my feet into the earth, unfold my lips: into petals: into your palms, shed summer from my shoulders.
There …
after Jimmy Santiago Baca
Today, running along the creek, I have a lot to be mad about, a lot to pop open a bottle about, …
It’s a glimpse of spring in January, gossip of daffodil, tulip embryos too eager to meet sun. The night has a thousand
eyes, and I learned in …
Earth turns its quiet revolution— sky spilled sequins on ink; pale moon a scythe carving paths of silver through forests bathed in wolf’s breath …
I. Midnight: insomnia strikes. Ghosts arise where there are none, and the cat roams his castle, howling nocturnes.
II. What I would give to be …
after Agent Dale Cooper in Twin Peaks
As the wet asphalt of Agent Cooper’s
gelled back hair, Bobby’s motor oil spill of a mane.
James …
the fox hears the rabbit screaming. it is a terrible thing, twist of a knife, portrait of a throat on fire.
what is it like to be god? to be cinder …
at night we gather like all the birds of the wood : we, oil slick : dusk blue electricity effervescent in our throats : we snow dream : exhale moon …
we kissed and sparks set us glowing, our limbs live wires— unpredictable, electric. we burned like July suns, blazed like August campfires, …
bring me June daisies and July heatwaves. let cold water be something for skin to sizzle under instead of shiver at. send sun to summer my skin, moon …
June is a blossoming, a testing of freshly wringed wings. July is cottonwood ethereal one minute, thunderstorm electric the next. Things get hazy in …
is parched ivy stitched to my ribcage. July climbs my clammy back and leaves behind evacuated shells that tug and scratch, crumble, cling, crack …
August smells like sunscreen and ripe peaches, skin stained like regret: indigo rose, all the daisy chains we never made, friendship bracelets we …
I was born on hospital sheets on Jackson Street between two bends in the Brazos. I don’t remember what
I first saw beyond crimson estuary that …
I wonder what it is— the sorbet colors of sunsets, dawn’s warm cheek on her surface, her vastness rocking eternally from tranquility to …
he said. but i am about as attainable as horizon—no, as ocean rushing toward you only to slink away. i know this, somehow, is worse.
you want to drink …
Where for once, we don’t chase daylight— daylight chases us, smears her honey hands across our sun-starved backs …