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Month: April 2021

Thirty angels in black


for the nakedness of

being seen

For the angels dressed in black

I pray

They find their souls

beneath it

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

Baby Blanket/Identity

Baby Blanket/Identity

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?

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.

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?