The Poet

Thirty angels in black

grasping

for the nakedness of

being seen

For the angels dressed in black

I pray

They find their souls

beneath it

I stretched my skin

I folded myself up

and

the heart,

it always fit

When I asked for my mother

they brought me a heart

The first hit of lightning

reminds me of the grace

that is needed

to swallow a lie

I will search for you in mirrors

and I will press the pain away

I will whisper I love you

(I love you)

I will become my painting until love seeps from your walls

I will write different endings for myself

then watch the ink dry

I will

I will

I will

From a well

the drought drains itself

of its ashes

Under the door to our home

lay our memories

She runs through it

all pink, sparkles and PTSD

And apparently

she cannot just be

because that

is too dangerous

A flower hides

in its petals.

Plucked or not,

whispers the moon

“I am the flower.”

Spy the edge. Watch the skeletons fall.

When did they begin forgetting themselves?
When did they become shadows?

And night tastes like silence when I close its door.

A golden drink or

a golden cup? To know or

to be known—a love

The song comes from inside the garden-there are few roses left. In this collection of words, I craft vignettes of self.

I become you in the shadow of your hope.

Milk and honey flow

beyond the gates of heaven.

Why, if not to live?

Somewhere I find it

Somewhere it goes

Unfold my desire

keep it in your pocket

When I wake up

will I remember me?

Nobody sees me

I see nobody

Grey clouds

and pulling seams

and danger

danger in

me

A loss of self overcomes me. In the morning and in the evening. Loss. Loss. A loss like death. Or a death like loss. A loss which hides in the shadows of my rose garden. One loss and many roses. I see only the flowers. And this loss tastes like honey on my tongue. Bitter honey. How can I enjoy this separation of self?

I tear

like the golden rope

which ties us together