wyrdwind

As Above

It’s not my nature

to be gentle, I was born

in the Mohave Desert

to 130 degrees.

Dog Days of Summer so

named for Sirius faithful

of Canis Major beside the hunter.

Ancients believed brightest

in its heat boiled

oceans— turned

temperaments between

cigarette smoke embalmed by TV din,

yelping dogs, slamming doors, and holes

in walls. Mourning

doves make a family,

means shit outside

my bedroom window.

Open Sewn

Egyptians named the star

Sopdet, she who is

sharp.

Drew floods, punctured

desiccated earth. My landscape

shaped long before me.

Miners settled within

a gaping maw of mountains,

struck glass and steel deep

enough for a crumbling scab

of concrete and asphalt

to coagulate their desperation.

Fertility is a willing wound

that never heals—

the mother seeping

soul of Isis called

Dog by the Greeks.

Slit silver veins searching,

they found the Colorado River.

Acoustics of a Hollow Muscle

Stale light staggers through

heavy-lidded windows, warped

door frames, mirrors gazing into

a distance.

The desert’s high winds

rush, rattle, and quake

the hull of this

many summers humbled

mobile home.

Fondant dust plaques

cacophony of useless clutter.

Broken appliances, rusty tools,

unread books, unlit lanterns

hanging on, catch-all dining table,

empty refrigerator.

The walls reek of so much

bad cholesterol.

Parents don’t cry,

all their water ran out

years ago. Dry beds

cannot hold, are not

present, sink around

whose mass is greater.

North

The fortune teller reads

my hands, place a wish

into their well

then open

cold fingers folded close.

My fault lines feather

in either direction—

a linear equation.

“You have so much

love to give.”

But I just look down.

My cell phone screen.

I’ve been walking somewhere

between

11pm and dawn (again).

There’s no one

who can answer

if I call.

By the time light

from old stars shivers a capella

through atmosphere, they’ve died.

On a clear night, through a strong lens,

there’s a chance.

You only see it

if you’re looking.

Separate Houses

As a child my playgrounds were

daydreams and abandoned lots—

sometimes virulent with crabgrass,

milkweed, and creosote. Salt

cedars slumped over

black pipes thrust from matte gray

foundations, the grave

yard after its meth lab burned down.

Pale silt wasted

with smooth stones one spoken

in tongues, submerged. Before

the dam. A sign

into town reads Los Matadores—

Spanish for killing,

mortal and murderer.

When savage junkyard

mutts jumped

wilted chain link fences, all teeth,

I’d choke them long enough

for us to understand each other.

Treble

Two wolves

Skoll and Hati pursue

the Sun and Moon across,

attuned to hunger, will

complete consummation is

an ending.

The nightmares came early

and are the wilderness I return

four-legged in the end,

wandering shades of my waking world,

deserted and gnawed away

into an atomless void.

Running

somewhere, a soul

must be saved.

Sudden is my skin

stripped shrieking

from clutched bones,

pulse hounded

heart bucking, umbra

eyelids blot the white

noise, heckles and whispers

of the missing, thousands swarming

frequency of need, craven.

The purpose of dreams once was

survival rehearsal, a game

against a machine

greater— the habitat

where children and beasts

must crawl.

Abscess

I was quiet in school, so

teachers sat troubled

students next to me.

I avoided reflectively, surfaces,

my ill-fitting

clothes steeped in second-hand

nicotine and body odor.

Long dandruffy hair willowed

over an acne riddled face.

I laughed alone in my room

and covered my mouth anyways.

At lunch I sat with:

Fat Girl, Insect Torturer Girl,

and White Trash Mullet Girl—

the cutter, who said

“If you want to die,

you go down the river,

not across.”

She grinned, teeth bared,

her chest and limbs laced

together by a razor.

She stopped coming to school.

Corn in Winter

We do not speak of this, planting beds

hollowed of esteem, furrows

wrung ragged. Weathered conception—

one chance of a husk discarded

as dinnertime. When a body

ceases to produce naturally,

agriculture intervenes.

It’s November,

I dug and filled the recycled concrete

outlines— bone dust, manure, rot and other aftermath.

Now, new growth bristles

through dead weight and storm

whiplash. Ash blonde tufts of silk

flop tattered doll heads,

little leaves reach

for an embrace and receive

mostly punishment. It’s heavy

but they don’t give up. A sickle moon

reaps low over a harvest of amber

city lights winnow along the black

gash I know to be the river.

She wanted a water birth,

always knew I’d be a girl

so my name means faithful child.

Exit Wound

It swelled within you, unasked—

you didn’t think you were able,

so why would you have guarded against

a miracle?

No signs at first. Then

a skipped beat, a lingering

sense that you were no longer

alone.

The fullness

you weren’t prepared for, scrambled

to make it belong. To be the person

it needed you to be. Someone worthy.

You would carry it, no matter the burden.

Your water broke.

Contractions gripped your chest

cavity, clawed out through your lungs,

your throat, your eyes—

this nightly labor lasted for years.

Wet and retching, vicious and torn open,

surely it must pass soon?

Blood, the body, proof of this dead thing.

Something to bury.

The only body was yours,

naked on damp bed sheets, scalded

from showering too long.

Marrow Instrumental

As stark birch, weeping

aspen and burning maple

I shed three feet of hair

and twenty-five pounds in the fall.

No more sugar, preservatives, or apologies.

Pomegranate stained mane

contrasts a chimera closet

of mesh, spandex, leather, studs, and lace.

Ribs, collar, and shoulder blades

a flight of shadows

where flesh should be, more edges

than curves. You can drink yourself to death,

or you can spend two hours on the basement

elliptical at max resistance every night,

go dancing alone while the ugly stares

of other girls’ boyfriends drip off you

like sweat on scales. Bachelors circle

but come no closer.

Sing so loud in your brick dorm

that your neighbors two doors down sing too,

take Judo (the Gentle Way),

Dance (Jazz-Hip-Hop-Ballet),

Flow Yoga (Intermediate),

Self Defense (avoid, deceive, maim, or kill),

and Strength (with a football coach).

Then maybe

call your brother, dad says

he misses you.

Get it Done

Wake from the snow deafened peaks

where the bloody templed black wolf

fallen on my shoulders entrusted me

his passage through.

We would have made it, too—

three assignments due

on a fifteen hour day before dawn.

I rise,

tape this maybe fractured ankle,

touch my talismans: grandmother’s beads,

black silk rose mysteriously graced my door,

raven feathers, and various hagstones.

Well, rent won’t make itself you know.

Saw the sun off long ago,

ought things begin the way they end,

always at last wends my third wind.

Distant traffic thrums monastic

over streets a siren slick estuary you’d think empty,

grinding rumble of an oncoming train

thick as adrenaline that sends shock galloping

towards the heart on impact. You feel nothing.

Nobody ever fell upon those tracks accidentally.

Drunk, sore-bitten homeless men stalk me

near the Greyhound station primarily.

Their trouble is often,

“Excuse me, do you have any

spare change? I’m trying

to get back home.”

Girlhood

My first friend was half my size,

I found her playing in a ditch alone.

She asked me over once

but her father carved a human skull,

in the living room.

Her brother tried to stab us.

On her birthday she hid her face

in my stomach as that man

broke her mother’s cheekbone

and threw rocks because she said

no.

After he left, the woman fixed

her makeup and asked if we wanted pizza.

Our family dog cowered on me like that, too,

triage is just what Big Girls do,

figure early how far they’ll go,

what they’ll do to remain

whole.

Petrichor

Ask me why I took three showers each day

or why it rang homesick never having left,

how my features shone best advantage

only when I wept.

High cheekbones and a Choctaw nose

100 years breeding couldn’t pretty those,

not the oak in my stature or teeth in my tone.

Bring late monsoons bare skin to the earth,

sing slender siblings howls lilting with mirth,

sing sun riven roads pebbled glass glittering.

It’s raindrops on a crocodile’s back mimicking—

that’s mating behavior. Find the hardest one

and soften to her. Somewhere south of Eden

beneath a storm cloud duvet

spills smokey violet into brilliant flame,

you’d almost walk another plane.

I’ve got no company, but this wine will do,

no pants and stinky come home from Jiu-Jitsu,

my cat doesn’t judge, he takes a sip too,

settles by the keyboard to lick blood firmly

and raspy from my wounds.

Mycelium

Any good gardener knows life begins in the soil,

don’t go digging what’s laid to rest,

leave it all on the hungry ground and plants spring

up where they’ll grow best.

You need clever hands with delicate insistence,

as an earthworm savors in saliva its entire length.

You need to listen, really listen,

as duneswept skull conch instead of think.

The work shows you how to do it,

arid blooming citrus, jasmine, palm, and rose,

something tasteful and courtly riding high in the nose

astride tannic musk teething deep in the loam,

something the wrong side of sweet down your throat.

Cayenne for bothers and copper for blight—

the work shows you how to do it—

sticky sun-split fruits when you’ve done it right.

Fools call it witchcraft to see their white God undressed,

bent back before a woman drawn taut as bow’s breath.

Any good gardener makes a lover of Death.

All Souls

Wear a monster’s face and cross

the threshold into night,

once a year assured little dangers.

Tipsy scuffing procession of bobbing flashlights

seek scattershot vigil of lamplit stoops—

if you’re out there, I’m here, I’ll wait—

people I never see reveal themselves

no matter their disarray,

pay what passage the restless require.

We paint our lips and eyes leaning

tip toe over the sink, brushes poised.

Blushed champagne, bruised plum, incense.

Me, I’m a creature

true to my roots: blood red Cleopatra,

coffin brown Cupid’s bow.

Plot the course of the evening,

kaleidoscope dance floors, so many

as carry a pulse. Period cramps met

with whiskey.

The Witching Hour hits

over a porcelain cauldron, Babygirl

exorcises what’s been rubbing her raw, him,

I make sense of her hair, blow cool air

on her sweat pricked nape, and settle.

One’s brought water, two guard the stall,

three more join us with purse bread

in communion. The way

women turn any dirty fluorescent bathroom

into a confessional.

The pain a boa constrictor rather

than a gunshot now, I hear her.

For a moment terror teethes a Kit Kat

at a bus stop at 5am and we know

real monsters wear the faces

of Good Men.

Woman the Hunter

We’re persistence predators,

anticipation is half the pleasure

of a meal. Preparation is key,

is he by woodland, sand, sky, or sea?

She must eat if she is hungry, but takes no more

than she needs. The best beast for her table:

White serving pumpkins warm,

rustic rain puddle bowls brimming,

gilt edge plates the shape

of autumn leaves.

Roasted brussel sprouts puckered

by spiced tangerine cranberries finished

with goat cheese and walnuts.

Cacio e pepe lapped golden

by duck yolk to taste.

Butter swollen pastries stuffed

with sweet almond paste.

Meat must be seasoned long in advance,

no, you can’t be hasty,

let salts sink in slow, smoked low

over steady flame. The sauce

of whisked drippings thickened

with cream. A shallot is proper.

The male of the species should prove himself—

he sings, or dances, or locks horns

in mortal combat. He has pride

in his coat, colors, or physique.

The female’s desire determines

natural selection.

I promise to aim truly,

if you promise to fall

for me alone.

Rule of the Mother

Slip through the construction shroud,

you wouldn’t catch me dead

in a church otherwise.

But a roofless cathedral hewn

from the highest hilltop,

ghostly under a rain halo supermoon—

that’s something to see.

Somnolent inhale cavernous plays

ocarina sweeping dust whirls

at my feet. Body hairs risen,

spun spidersilk in gloam.

There’s pups tucked away,

down in the mesquite flush washes,

testing their lungs in yips and runs.

When I leave, I leave

chains clipped, the gate ajar,

pass the beaten backs of tents

groveling for scraps below.

My roommate would paint their ceiling

twice, because they didn’t want a woman

looking them in the eyes the first time.

After all, she might tell you

to quit whining, sort your shit,

and do the dishes.

Bad Gods

Our oldest and largest tree was home

to a great colony of turkey vultures.

A five storey tall red gum eucalyptus

who saw this town in infancy, infamy, and infirmity.

Every morning I’d come watch them,

wings spread wide from their seat

in sun salutation. Their necessary

task an endless, thankless one.

The City hired worthless ill-bred butchers

to hack and saw her mighty limbs, reduce her

shape and grasp. They sprayed their business

number on a log. Posted Keep Out.

I threw the sign in a dumpster and rolled

the hundreds pound amputation over,

flip flops, mumu, and no bra be damned.

She grew back, but her children

lost and scattered.

Neutral Ground

Meet me in the cemetery,

say what you need to say, there’s reason

in the counterweight.

We’ll find the distance, the balance

of our deeds.

Woodpecker staccato,

snowscab crunch,

exhale fogfallen angels,

shameless daffodils

profuse in their support.

We didn’t move closer,

we didn’t walk away.

Turn a circle until the sun

sheds a different way.

Naming

Smuggled home in a hoodie

my singsong nimbus kitten

became Nemo

of Slumberland fame,

the most constant companion

I’ve ever known.

Soft soprano sleepy shuffling

and a padlocked chain tagging

his identity—

if you found his body,

he belongs with me.

He would not be reserved

indoors, escaped no matter

the cost.

I let him go.

Not one testicled tom

piped up or caught attitude

during his reign.

Dead birds at my feet in bed,

rolling body slams across the roof,

long absences,

brutal injuries,

familiar weight settling

by my head at first light,

one paw touching me

slight as a moth’s wing

at all times, in every

stillness.

Twelve years survived this,

a month gone meandering

saw morning break, purring

at my pillow once more,

but it was just a dream.

Black Ice

Every wild animal

has what’s called critical space:

a radius in which your overstep

forces action.

An experienced mother unmuzzled

will neither announce herself

nor hesitate.

Men know better, they always do

if they hear “no” and think “negotiate”

you don’t have to play.

They say “civilized”, moving in,

it’s not “murder” if it’s legislation,

don’t make the rules, just follow them,

poor schools get one extracurricular:

boot camp.

They thought “discipline” but obedience

just makes a man.

Chase that chain of command

until you’ve got clean hands.

Send a million men to tame Her,

it’s death before capture, yours,

if greed makes a nation

it’s love makes a soldier.

Rabies

An incurable virus unique to mammals,

rife as we are with mucous membranes,

none so eager and wanting as humans.

The most fleeting exposure

is a death sentence.

It begins a mild dissonance,

a little too rough, too jarring,

lateness in the lips or eyes.

Swiftly snapping this stranger

in your home.

For every trespass forgiven, another,

someone you once called friend, lover,

they won’t drink water.

Catastrophic inflammation burns

synaptic effigy, women wait too long

to flee.

Black mirror facsimile seeking

a host bloody for its own sake.

Postmortem diagnosis requires

the brain in pieces, portents broke

news you already knew.

The appropriate response to contagion

is cremation.

Double Helix

Remember, you’ve been here before,

a child pulls from its mother’s bones,

you’ve known the face of your creator

your entire life.

Leaks rotted through the floor,

faucets crusted over stinking sulfur,

termite porosis, black mold, dust mites,

roaches, and mice.

Still no food in the fridge.

Remember, you’ve been here before,

the first thing a Judoka learns

is how to fall in Fibonacci sequence,

roll towards your center,

keep tight and regain.

Take the momentum of a strike

and hit return to sender.

Hold them if you can,

let go if not.

Remember, you’ve been here before,

your 275lb coach tattooed with the ocean,

like fighting a mattress. Find your grips

without sight, on your back trust

power in the anchor of your hips.

Air choke, blood choke,

negate submission.

Whatever your reflection says,

don’t give it permission.

If you forget why you hang on,

remember a shy mother and daughter

who saw you at your worst and said

they’d never seen a woman be strong.

Take heart at least you

never let a man

put his hands on your neck,

a ring on your finger,

or His name on your work.

Purple Heart

Women of our line come late

to love, they don’t make them

like they used to.

Grandma fled in the middle

of the night from her ex,

knowing such things as no-fault, unwed

bank accounts and employment

didn’t exist.

Fallen woman because casualty

is too close the truth. Occupied

territory under protection

from our own good.

Grandpa was a navy man,

supposedly sterile so content

with building space shuttles,

stargazing.

She returned

to the shore birthed her—

nascent gray mist, gulls, tides

pooled fish-sucked cape.

Met him there,

who means to love the sea

has steady hands.

Grandpa was a patient man,

of few words and fewer tears,

the most ever spoken to me

on his deathbed about keeping

an even keel.

Who spoke never of World War

wept when I was born.

Who outlived her mate ten years

bade me find a younger man

that he might last my side.

Bacchanal

Grape musk, dianthus, cedar,

and a wisp of campfire.

A woman should have

her signature summons.

Speakeasies and farewell songs,

lightning, cello, and electric bass,

deadlift calluses and mat burns,

level five Thai on stormy days.

Shiraz cracked lips laughing too hard,

chalk smudges on a sheath dress,

fights at the club and lavender lemon drops,

drunk girls descending on a plate of potatoes.

Pile of satin heels beside a grand staircase.

Stay up late in bed and just talk.

Black Pearls and Verdigris

If I ever wore a nightmare crown,

wrought every shard of shrapnel shed,

I’d grow thorns, swallow a peach pit

and sleep.

No such rest for me:

twisted slavering flesh sacks,

Void Face Gray Man

(FUCK that guy),

Vaguely a Witchdoctor with One Gold Eye

(he’s okay, riddles always),

Big Bird Midwife

(my teacher),

composite corpse abominations,

hounds.

I won my territory when I flew,

attained All Paws, talons, and planted seeds.

Made myself more trouble

than a meal was worth.

Stranded at my house, the world

a barren sea of sand but for my last

best efforts contrary: willows, vines,

moss, lichen, algae, the Unending

Well where I feed them all

unruly.

Recipe for Raising the Dead

Peanut butter wards off dizziness

and worst of it, potatoes keep forever

and don’t give a fuck, testified

by filigree leaved tendrils scuttling

from behind the fridge. Apples

aren’t filling but scurvy is bad,

I could only afford one

but that worker uglies them up

so now I can afford a bag.

Waste nothing, matter

conversion rates skew in favor

of the female, who alone bears

many lives or none at will.

What’s given her returns

more.

Microbiology

Humble copper and its cousin brass

don’t much suit the vain, ephemera

moonscape oxidation stained in purpose

strident as a feline tongue to bacteria.

If you’re dirty, you’re doing your job.

If it’s messy in your mouth

it’s nourishing.

The biome of your small intestine

in chorus with the Earth, writhing,

a woman’s lasts longer,

never needed a priest to Know.

There is no higher power.

Harmonic Frequency

Interrupting my regularly scheduled

demon slaying broadcast:

Four legged through heaving

bluegrass banks, impossible

in perpetual twilight teeming

with ultraviolet blooms, I catch

a scent on the breeze. Above

wheels the whole of our galaxy

from the other side,

someone similar entangled

beneath me there,

was it you?

Minimum Wage

A toast to my fellow closing shift managers

who raw dogged the pandemic

with a skeleton crew:

I know you sorry fucks ain’t sober,

making less than three dollars over,

stiff in your everywhere and a brace on your wrist,

public bathroom canvassed cloying shit mist,

smile in your voice as some smooth brain

shouts for supplies,

while you wonder if today’s the day

you Catch It and your family dies.

There’s no good reason a customer

asks for your name,

that crockpot in the break room

keeps everyone sane.

Your employee evaluation says,

“handles under pressure,”

spit at any corporate bitch says,

“we’re in this together.”

If you get home and just stare at a wall,

asking if any of this matters at all,

you do.

Cheers.

Percussive Maintenance

Iron knell barbell plates,

five by five and three by three,

10pm power rack mass observed

by graveyard casino abuelas counting

this rosary.

Teenage girls cloistered in youth,

weary of the male gaze, too

much cardio, not enough protein–

would have asked me sooner

but they said I looked mean.

Nod to Gold Chains and Hoops,

hit the street.

Monsoon heady and soon to burst,

it won’t wait for me to get home first,

guttural thunder snarl, flash,

She’s on us now.

Sparse trees shudder the punishing

ecstasy, find sanctuary

where you dare. Jugular rush renders

the roads impassable rivers

was there ever a man could love her

the way she deserves?

Flickering topaz, chill and damp

sated silence, tremble grateful

where she went.

Beat full fat milk to a froth,

cinnamon, cayenne, turmeric, pepper,

a pinch of coconut sugar,

panting steam from a hand thrown mug.

Kitchen Witchery

Cook with cast irons, care

for them piously. Their weight sobers

anxiety and prevents anemia,

speaking of, Cajun spice beef liver

coated in crispy onion and paired

with red beans heals quicker

whatever ails ye.

Dark beet greens, kale and spinach,

citrus rind and bacon grease—

don’t skip that step or their wealth

won’t release.

If you’re not sure what to do:

potatoes.

If everyone’s sad:

bread.

If there’s trouble:

make dumplings as a family.

If there’s Trouble:

put some muscle into it,

repeat until dead.

Parthenogenesis

It’s 8am Ancient Lit

and Dionysus is the only man

I’ve ever loved.

Enough to lurch from my bed

delivering Pentheus dissected

at the altar of anarchy.

You’d think me Martin Luther

if he did something useful

and wore better clothes.

Dopamine, serotonin, oxytocin:

the trinity

call down a host of endorphins

that imbue divinity.

There’s one organ on the human body

whose sole evolutionary edict

is to receive devotion,

measuring prayers agonized

in delirious motion.

The most dire loss in this world

is one’s appetite,

how quickly we tell girls their excess,

leisure is regress, some suit

in an office to impress,

I confess, pedagogy never suited me.

Passion preys serpentine,

Kundalini coiled at the base,

wherever it goes I give chase,

if it’s blood, spit, or tears on my face.

Funny thing about virgin birth:

the offspring is always female.

Camp Rules

Now sit your city ass down

and I’ll learn you some things:

Whatever you hear in the woods at night

is none of your goddamn business,

your buddy is going with you for a piss,

that jingle bell tripwire marks perimeter,

don’t leave offerings if you don’t want visitors,

bring more blankets than you need,

pack like you’ve got mouths to feed,

don’t let children out of your sight,

wait until you’re home to snipe.

You’ll find problems smaller in the cold:

hunger, heat, someone to hold.

If you take, you leave behind,

what you brought, you must mind.

Woman’s Story by Winter Fire

Once when this land was green,

a woman longed for a son

to please her mate, who came

from a far off place, kept

strange ways.

But no matter how many times

they took to bed, her moon

struck sure. She pleaded,

my house has been blessed already,

my daughter is strong. Why

ask more? He grew furious,

insisted only a child of their union

could ease his mind. A son.

That night she lay motionless

until he finished.

She wept.

He left.

Well, some spirit must have heard,

for in nine months a cry

roiled atop toad gurgle and cricket chirp.

Down in the bayou she found him,

a precious boy to bestow her mate.

He never returned.

Her daughter waried at this thing

called her brother.

The mother nursed him,

and nursed him,

a year went by. Two. Three.

When her milk withered, blood.

The baby gorged, overripe, ungainly,

his screaming and grabbing ceaseless.

The mother wasted away,

believed this love

would never leave her.

Never mind her daughter

cleaning every mess, patching

every hole, chewing

the food her mother weakly

swallowed.

With her dying breaths the mother

asked her daughter to take her place.

She packed Him in snow

until there was silence instead.

Maximum Clearance

I’m threading a ghost galleon

through the eye of a hurricane

that shouldn’t be here

courting the arctic circle.

Waves harrow canyon carved

walls crashing on sheer cliffs,

the only character on a canvas

awash broad strokes steeled blues.

My mortally wounded ship chewed

apart yet warm and dry.

It remembers being seaworthy,

so long as I reinforce the shape

of that belief with my hands,

structural integrity holds.

Lanterns cast radiant droplets

citrine overflowing.

I’ve brought survivors aboard,

or perhaps they’ve yet to decide.

Missed Manners

Offer food to your guests,

greet your neighbors,

don’t look cats in the eyes,

reach under not over a dog’s head,

let them smell you first,

get on their level.

It you’re riding shotgun

and shit goes sideways on the road,

be ready to shoot on the driver’s behalf.

Only draw if you mean to fire.

Keep your hands visible

or you’ll get shot.

Never call the police

or animal control.

Always have water wherever

it’s needed.

Call family members

not an ambulance.

Bring a host gift on invitation—

candle, blanket, tequila or whiskey.

A gift should speak the tethers

of your bond, it has meaning

not price.

No substitute.

Hand write thank you notes.

If the eldest woman in a household

serves you a plate,

you eat it all.

Beware bad manners abroad,

you’re safe at a funeral–

cartels wait until they’re outside

cemetery walls to execute

an entire family.

The mariachi bands don’t miss

a beat.

They’re not animals.

Tools of the Trade

My weapon of choice for the apocalypse

is a shovel.

Compost, time, and I against any foe,

a root, herb, or bark for every woe.

The bargaining power of a house

lay in its resources:

Seeds, potatoes, penicillin, spirits,

alcohol, vinegar, spices, salt,

spinning, weaving, and song.

Craft of these.

Its women, chickens, and dairy.

Care of these. Mother

Nature is a maximalist,

She abhors a vacuum.

Busied in service of life,

there’s such little room for strife,

and if outsiders insist on a fight,

I know a place

I can take you.

Ride or Die

It should be said

I’m not a do-nothing bitch.

Do not lightly commit yourself

my creature.

If you let a dog in the house,

you’re the one digging maggots

from his fur and orifices, force feeding

until he wanes, digging

a hole in the desert because

there’s just one way

when you’ve got no money

and a shift that day:

through the heart

the only suffering is yours.

Textile Fixation

In the beginning

there was starless amniotic

thunderous and rhythmic

with your mother’s blood.

That heartbeat strove

the span of prehistory

to reach you.

Caverns deep-chested,

full-throated,

teased and stroked pigments

where first we wove speech

and song.

What makes us

dress ourselves such intricacies

of delicious friction, work

months to weave fine cloth,

all the while singing.

Things to shelter, protect,

carry and hold

the spirit clothed in mother-tongue

tapestry, always beauty

is utility, who told you

it wasn’t? A fool.

If it please the ancestors:

tender fingertips upon the human

instrument, voices carrying duet

in the gasping dark, fabric

clinging to mercy at my hips,

unlikely to find it

as I move.

Standing Invitation

Before you go,

drink some tea with me.

I assign a cup to every friend,

at least one candle trembling,

all through the after

hours, I’m awake.

We don’t have to talk about it,

what seems a hard ball of medicine

submerged unfurls watercolor baroque,

a thing much easier to contend with,

if lacking in sweetness, a bloom.

I can’t give you answers,

but I have a full bookcase,

an armchair fat as a troll’s palm,

furs dyed timbres polar night,

and the possibility

of a cat in your lap.

Dirge

Sometimes the river is an ocean,

two orcas wondered where I’d been,

but in this world now, crippled,

the Colorado languishes gangrenous,

cultured with duck butt, gasoline,

and human waste.

Drug dealers and wailing drunks

frequent this particular derelict ramp

tucked between uninhabited mansions.

Past midnight there’s peace

my place at the jagged edge

overgrown in spite of cement,

candle lit at the shore,

I leave my clothes.

It’s colder than most can stand,

current stronger than it appears,

keep still.

Our sister city high up past the marsh

bleeds votive columns slipping

through my fingers,

a glowing birch grove I could enter

if I went under.

Reparations

Our foremother went by foot

from her home with a gun to her back,

there’s no record before that.

Thousands of her kinsmen perished,

amid this a white man took interest

and the rest

is an unmarked grave.

We don’t know his name,

only that he stayed,

built their daughter a house

so she had the power

to shut her husband out of it.

Our tree a corridor of recurring

names, daughters

bear witness,

we’ve wandered ever since.

But I know whether you grasp brambles

or ripened hips a method of season,

your approach.

The right soil.

Classified Information

We’ve maintained stable orbit,

hidden by the black hole’s interference,

but containment breach

is its natural state, its appetite

refracted the crew through time and space,

they’re elsewhere now, a cat’s cradle

of chords unconscious,

I can’t strum them out.

It’s tugging like a child

at its mother’s sleeve, it wants

me to come outside.

A captain goes down with her ship.

I’ve engaged manual override

shield tuning, inverted the flow,

should distract it long enough

to plunge the Coyote Core beyond

the event horizon.

If you’ve never seen it up close:

it’s iridescent whalesong unspooling

all rivers returning

what’s that we’re supposed to say?

End of watch.

Cold Case

Subject is female, age 36,

official cause of death listed

as cardiac arrest.

Skin notably intact

despite damage to soft tissues

consistent with repeated

blunt force trauma.

No apparent signs of distress

or broken bones.

When we visited the mother

for questioning

she wasn’t there.