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.
wyrdwind 