Gray
When I was small
I asked to remain awake
for the procedure. Instead
they held me down
to administer anesthesia.
I fought. Clawed.
My screams scored the halls.
Try tranqing a Tasmanian devil,
sedatives are like slapping a gorilla.
One drop of Down
triggers a surge of adrenaline,
and my needle swings fight.
I prefer to know what’s going on.
Feel everything. Which is also not great.
Normal people
just take heroin. Instead, one day,
I discovered a broken heart unattended,
left long untreated, exposed,
will just Do That
like some fuckin’
Tolkien elf.
Arrhythmia
I laugh about it now.
Worst of both worlds.
Sand in my limbs, iron
coffin at the bottom
of the ocean.
Drowning over and over.
I felt everything.
Every day.
Grasped for a shore
where nothing and no one
waited for me.
Reality.
Minimum wage with a smile on my face
or else customers complained.
Coach wondered that I could take
such pressure on my neck, my diaphragm,
cage fighters twice my size sooner tapped,
holding out when my lungs
could barely expand.
Made an appointment with a psychologist
once,
before insurance cut off.
The only one for a hundred miles
whose completely unrelated specialty
was addiction.
He said as a matter of conscience
he couldn’t prescribe medication
because what I needed
was help.
Blood Eagle
My one wish then
was the same as it’s ever been,
that somewhere on the open road
there’s another, just one Other
whose insides look like this.
That order’s tall as it gets.
I’m aware.
But what’s a bad bird
to do without her dance partner?
The torment of every zookeeper
with a species endangered.
There is no next best.
No nest eggs.
Not even some cousins or sisters.
Wears on past a point
you doubt you’re a bird at all.
Something older. Reptilian.
Some nameless grief’s regression.
From the crushing depths you learn
the way of Sedna, of Tiamat,
fingers raw for the work
of endorphins.
There’s a place on the cusp of sleep,
wade-waters, and I wait there warm
and golden.
Where Tiamat met her mate
who was stolen.
If it’s not my hands
it’s not real.
That touch is mine alone.
The disturbance is coming
from inside the house.
Salt
They hate this shit in a girl.
Oh how people revile
my ability to say No,
put my rage where it belongs,
keep a target in my sights.
Draw a hard line.
Consecrate.
I’m “difficult.”
I “hold a grudge.”
Left my own uncle at a church
because he spittle shouted
and slammed a door at me one time.
Came begging after tasting Life.
Wouldn’t let him back inside,
homeless with one leg and nearly blind,
I knew he was about to die.
He didn’t.
But I wouldn’t bat an eye.
No difficulty, I will do a tough thing,
a dark deed.
I define family.
Here’s a new maternity leave:
This is my territory,
with or without babies, what could be,
those who may rely on me
for tranquility.
The privilege of my space.
It’s true I don’t feel guilt
and seldom apologize.
But if you’re mine,
you’ll never wonder why
I didn’t fight.
The Wild Hunt
You know how it is.
My voice is either swan down
falsetto sung at littles in the dark,
or commanding legions of undead.
Rabbit’s fur or thunder whip.
Pillow bliss or wet the bed.
There is no in between.
You’d never guess
my favorite holidays
are Yule and Samhain.
Do that kinda caroling
makes kids whisper El Cucuy.
I start my holiday
shuffling around my shower spider,
I leave him alone, he’s doing his job,
black coffee and steel cut oats,
both with butter—
I only fuck with Kerrygold—
call that an Irish Exorcism,
if it was in there now it’s not,
mama needs Jiu Jitsu fuel.
All of this to limber up,
heartwood sapwood strength enough,
long shots like a yew longbow,
taxine toxic in your cup,
Thoughts and Prayers double pump.
Some of the boys, well they play rough,
it’s hit the mats or else do drugs,
come find out it’s perma-Lent
anonymous. Whole laundry list
of former sins,
and I’m the “Beast”
who tests their stamina,
straighten up and fly right, yeah,
right before the Octagon.
Gods know I muzzle demons,
awfully out of breath son.
No secrets just announcements:
I shaved my back! I washed my hands!
I wore a cup! I ate Taco Bell!
I pulled my first double!
I got a girlfriend!
I was molested
so I’m always Clown On until I’m Not.
Boys.
Yggdrasil Aril
It’s said
that one man and one woman
will survive Ragnarok, sheltered
by the deathly sacred yew.
From them springs the next epoch.
Now there’s a thought. A proving ground.
Standing at the edge of everything,
ravaged land and endless night,
put your hand out.
Who is by your side?
Why?
I once dreamt of a fallen world,
the story of every soul written in the hollow trunk
where disease had struck.
Their men spoiled. Turned.
Had their tree bore fruit, they would live still.
The People. The dust planet.
The mission as I understood it
was to protect these trees whatever the cost.
Old growth. A Celtic knot
is a closed loop. Ecological. No domestic
differential, outer and inner spheres.
The natural union of Death and Love,
each the eternal muse of the other one.
Who dies dares to love.
Who loves is forever young.
Meet your lady
with a story to tell. Head full
of fleece for her spindle.
The fabric of our song.
An archer
aims with her heart.
Her focus and subconscious.
When is a yew safe to touch?
Where you’ve made the right bed,
however many bodies built it.
When she’s in the flesh.
wyrdwind 