Tag: poetry

• Aisling Óengus

  His name means Chosen One,

  borne in a day, forever young,

  born the last of Dagda’s sons,

  inheritance none.

  With winged kisses and lovely song,

  wit and wile, he played at love.

  Tricked his father, a castle won,

  a day and night known by Boann.

  Swords and spears a purpose

  above,

  given to quests against all odds.

  Everything that he could want.

  It wasn’t enough.

  A dream upon him in the night,

  was it golden hands or many voiced,

  tension on those strings just right,

  just right.

  Was it something in her eyes?

  Saw her but couldn’t remember.

  The most beautiful woman

  he’d ever seen in his life.

  Nowhere to be seen in the daytime.

  Unattainable. He wasted away.

  Narrowed his focus, a singular

  point.

  Only one thing

  would bring him joy.

  Would know her kiss

  if it hid her bite.

  He took no pleasure

  in being alive.

  His mother tried

  to put it right, sickness

  mundane, family divined.

  Love in absence,

  antidote hopeless,

  without even a name

  to go on.

  They set out to find

  this woman of strange

  description.

  Oh that took some time.

  Some secret identity.

  An ultimate mystery.

  Who was she?

  Finally,

  a stricken cord.

  Shapely Yew Berry,

  many shapes indeed, fruit

  of the deadliest tree. Death

  Herself, you see. Caer

  denotes a resting place,

  an abode of stories and dreams,

  she the master of these.

  Ibormeith rhymes roughly

  with river-faith. Anyway,

  she dwelled beside a cursed lake,

  a dragon’s mouth they say, banished

  beneath a serpent. Story

  for another day.

  A swan upon its waters,

  somersaulting Samhains,

  bearer of All Souls.

  Aengus flew to her at once.

  Asked the blessing of her father,

  but hers were the Old Ways.

  This king had no say.

  If he be worthy of her heart,

  to that far shore he must depart,

  and call to her by name.

  Thrice fifty swans the same.

  This flock of many beauties,

  and he despaired his mate.

  Only love survives the grave.

  Aengus closed his eyes.

  All those nights a journey made,

  had to crawl to know her shape,

  desolate and desperate.

  Dreams aren’t fun and games.

  Caer Ibormeith.

  A woman once again,

  looked upon her chosen man

  and said where have you been?

  Lover when I called you,

  I didn’t stutter.

  Gray hairs given your mother.

  All turned about some other,

  recollection muddled.

  How noisy the waking world.

  Aengus was here now though,

  hand out,

  if she would take it.

  Wore the feathers she made him.

  Thrice about that lake they swam,

  song of such beauty

  an entire kingdom slept.

  A kingdom beyond is where they went.

  That Ever After?

  It’s the end.

  

  June 30, 2025

  Celtic, Death, Irish folklore, love, music, poetry, storytelling, The Old Ways

  ---

• Golden Fleece 1/X: assorted retellings and embellishments

  Honor Killing

  Once was a samurai,

  a lord among men. Won

  divine armor, the most skilled

  among them. His highest achievement

  yet.

  Helmet Invulnerable, Breastplate Impenetrable,

  Sword Unbreakable. Fields

  of fallen warriors. What

  was it all for?

  The Moon King

  named him a threat.

  Ordered this Hanzo’s death.

  One foe ahead of the rest, brightest

  star of heaven, so very strong

  of magic. Fiercest opponent

  he’d ever met. Lost in her eyes, said,

  “You are my quest.”

  They took to bed.

  Would make a people

  in her image.

  But her family mourned her perfection,

  pure power without warmth of companion,

  and a fallen daughter

  they wouldn’t forgive.

  The Song We Couldn’t Write

  Oh how the world

  finds a way to make shame

  a woman’s business. The Three

  must defeat it, comes down to demons

  and who makes them. The power

  of song

  and these knives they found.

  Duty and perfection expound,

  got a problem? Keep that shit

  to yourself. But this time around,

  our main girl needs help.

  Her cords skip out,

  fumbles at the finish line,

  and the fairest demon boy

  finds her just in time.

  Clocks her stripes in the middle

  of a fight. Her fractures.

  His own the mirror of hers.

  From her teammates he covers,

  and something like romance ensues.

  Turns out her mama loved a demon too.

  She didn’t choose

  her patterns, did no wrong

  but be born. The care

  of a woman whose tenderness

  was scorn in disguise.

  Her real mother died.

  How is a mystery.

  Reverberate,

  did mommy love me?

  Through his loneliness she sees

  the man he was in life.

  Offers a place close

  at her side. She’s immune

  to the Demon King’s voice.

  Hope comes down to choice.

  For a moment

  he believes he can rise.

  But that Demon King reminds.

  His Voice. And his choices.

  He didn’t confide them, that version

  unsightly. How precious to think

  his dream

  could yet come true. Hope

  is unbecoming of you.

  Our girl

  hits the bottom,

  a well of betrayal. Abandoned

  by all she’s known.

  And so

  there’s one way left to go.

  Breaks that barrier herself,

  it all comes out.

  Different kinda mouth to mouth.

  He’s a terrible wall of fire

  and she’s ready to be Loud.

  Allows her whole self to be seen,

  she squares up with the Demon King.

  Her former team rejoin as she sings,

  but there’s just too many. Face to face,

  stripes turned to light, just a demon girl

  and her trusty blade.

  He finds her just in time.

  Eternity between their eyes.

  Heroes they’re not,

  but this once, for sake of song,

  and for love, he’ll be her sacrifice.

  Consumed by flames.

  Amplifies that gleaming blade,

  turns the tide of battle, and gives

  the strength to strike

  a death blow.

  Evig Hus

  A woman

  vibrant and warm

  decided it time to settle down

  so set about building her house.

  No detail too small, broke ground,

  pored every wall, every fixture,

  window to shadow,

  all that was in her.

  They never met though.

  Drown at sea in a storm,

  the house woke only to mourn,

  couldn’t make sense of his form.

  Inorganic. He was never alive.

  Where do you put it,

  love that can’t die?

  He drove them away,

  shut everyone out. This

  was a one woman house.

  No other would do. Mischief,

  skullduggery ensued. Very rude.

  He thought he found Her,

  warped by his grief, clutched

  tight a firebird so great his need

  smothered. Stuck

  in his mirror dimension, willed

  they would be one.

  Her friends struggled, efforts all burned.

  But for one.

  It took some time, unsure

  she would come.

  Darkness wrought

  in Her name, damage

  undone.

  Bloated and limping, mangled,

  things growing

  from the bottom of the sea,

  shambled from her peace.

  No beauty she.

  He knew immediately.

  She was all he could see.

  Relinquished his host

  right in her arms, free

  to go home. Both.

  Origin media and relevant tracks: Kubo and the Two Strings, “Monkey’s Story” by Dario Marianelli and “While My Guitar Gently Weeps” by Regina Spektor; KPop Demon Hunters, “Free” by Rumi and “What It Sounds Like” by HUNTR/X; SurrealEstate S2 finale, “Luke & Megan” and “A Day of Goodbyes” by Spencer Creaghan.

  June 26, 2025

  fantasy, music, poetry, pop culture, storytelling, supernatural

  ---

• The Ever After

  Exclusion Zone

  Summer solstice marks

  the season of unrest, a lament

  you’ve not heard. Once

  we could count on storms, now

  it just burns.

  The last who remember before.

  Flip phones or no phones,

  no names on the net,

  the computer’s place is a desk,

  mistakes stay in the past.

  From the window,

  you wouldn’t know.

  Sky blue and glare ghosts,

  1950s and 70s cheerful,

  streets empty of people.

  Vultures wheeling a house

  if the power blinks out.

  Never knew someone lived there.

  We scurry by in the small hours,

  stirred up like hopping mice, burrowing owls,

  and geckos. Little brown bats swoop

  in the moonglow. An approachable furrow.

  Leave my scratchings and readings, balmy

  as a gymrat’s armpit. Bearable.

  Not for long though.

  Time enough to greet her,

  sing some songs by the river,

  scry her face for clues, ask

  to know who I dream of,

  where I belong.

  Invasive Species

  To be clear,

  when it’s a tree spine snapping

  -40 degrees, my order remains

  iced black coffee.

  I rock up with more vigor

  than a fat flying squirrel.

  Wool, boots, hat and go.

  Black widows asleep in my bra—

  when it’s on—bees bustle between

  my thighs. Egg sack on my handlebars,

  I leave well enough alone.

  Skunks don’t trouble me none.

  Called a kit from the dump

  just because. Universal,

  that scared baby trill. Where mama,

  wee people hands grasping your skirt

  adds years to your life.

  Carrying all my groceries uphill over ice

  without choice. Guttered in dirt slush,

  well it be like that sometimes. Gravelly voice,

  so slow to thaw, but it’s alright. It’s worth it

  to mother what others miss.

  Antihero Landing

  Nobody squares up like a goose,

  twenty four flapping pounds of fuck you,

  these birds aren’t afraid to choose—

  violence, yes—but partners too.

  Oh they hit altitude,

  go the distance, up and over Everest.

  You read that right.

  Seal Team Six shit—

  sans imperialist trash. Silly

  my ass. Never leave the fallen

  behind. Be it your best friend

  or your mate. Pity the lamed

  fool whose dance card reads

  my name.

  Black Magic

  When I had nothin’

  but a place to sleep, a nest

  of discarded things. Push pin mural

  of gig posters off telephone poles,

  pretty wrappers, and feathers.

  Fallen branches strung with beads

  and fairy lights. Traded heat

  to smile inside. It’s not childish

  if it’s how you survive.

  Known a few ate guns for less,

  got a brain throws fay gang signs

  but I count myself blessed.

  Sparkly depressed. Back then.

  Bit like Tarzan. Bit like Tangled.

  Come at this bitch sideways

  and you’re best case scenario mangled.

  Peace is when I can see myself

  in my surroundings. This always seems

  like absolute destruction

  to those around me.

  Chthonic Singles in Your Area

  Women’s voices evolved

  for range and specificity.

  Language birthing.

  But men,

  theirs were selected for beauty.

  Pleasing texture. I think,

  I wonder, if First Woman walked

  today, would the Goddess know

  him by his timbre?

  A worthy man

  could only be broken

  in this world. His signature, however,

  intact. The most important piece.

  The oldest stories speak

  to her loss, to the betrayal.

  A dragon, a serpent, denied

  the sustenance of her consort.

  Without him, only monsters born.

  Not on her end of course, nah,

  she can do what she wants,

  ain’t no wrong.

  But Jin, that spells apocalypse!

  That’s just a woman’s prerogative.

  If it’s not at her pleasure it ain’t fit

  to exist. You get what you get.

  Consider this your litmus test.

  Bootstraps

  Anyways, it’s not glass slippers,

  it’s snake print Doc Martens.

  Helluva time tracing these tracks,

  closest I ever came to a prince

  this funny dream I had way back,

  running him down in the woods

  at night. Some freezing, tar feathered

  disaster boy. He was terrified.

  Good times.

  Can’t imagine what I look like

  on the other side.

  If you can’t get farther, you can just

  be more. Full eldritch horror.

  Gods said I’m bound to the earth.

  Been a fuckin’ grind, for sure,

  and the best bargain for youth

  is body. Baby, one sip

  of me and it’s the forever

  kind of sleep.

  Rule of Thumb

  I pour the fucks I give

  from a silver thimble, spiderwebs

  off this spindle. Even so,

  if I think well I say so, if there’s love

  at all I’ll let you know. I am unsubtle.

  Every day, every which way, because any day

  could be your last. More than Covid

  taught me that.

  Always take an extra beat

  for who shuffles their feet,

  leave an extra seat, push back.

  We’re tagged on a feed lot

  headed for slaughter.

  Sold a plan for life when we’re older.

  Wage slave, stripper, or soldier.

  I won’t roll over. I’m tired

  but I’m still my Mother’s daughter.

  The last text my coworker

  ever received was me miles from her

  asking if she needed anything

  at the hospital.

  May 19, 2025

  climate change, mental-health, motherhood, mythology, poetry, romance, storytelling

  ---

• Maternity Ward

  You Belong to a Woman

  Forgiveness is irrelevant,

  every day do better than.

  Closure, the fuck is that?

  Ain’t beatin’ breast on a casket.

  I’ll take any storm,

  Gatling staccato over when,

  you’re older then, below ground.

  While we’re both around, let’s go out

  where there’s no atlas, flood cracks

  where the road was, mirrored sky,

  what are you afraid of? Look

  into my eyes.

  Did you try?

  It’s all just busted boxes

  you call civilization. No power

  to define. Boy,

  I built you right the first time.

  Black Madonna

  Every curl or wave is where I lingered,

  every stubble or peach fuzz. Every note

  or color, you were born

  enough.

  You’re here for me to touch.

  Pretty pebbles in a stream of song,

  no competition if you’re all mine,

  there’s no hurry beauty, my baby,

  I have nothing but time.

  When you were very small,

  jostled and shadowed, loud, I paid

  special attention. Littles

  do latch on. You went on

  and on and on. Every dream

  you ever had until present,

  until you fell asleep talking

  in my lap.

  Or when you saw my eyes open

  and with a grubby hand

  fed me from your snack bag

  at five in the morning.

  No words necessary.

  Like when you left with me

  every razor in your house.

  Symbolic gestures help.

  Or when my phone lights up late

  and you’re looking for a reason,

  it’s old boots now, walk

  my love, you know

  it’s not my first rodeo.

  Toil and Trouble

  We’ll settle it in the kitchen,

  ain’t fuck all but an open mouth,

  can’t wail around peanut butter sandwich,

  here taste this, it’s missing

  something.

  Stir that sauce

  while I make coffee,

  do you take cream? Remind me

  what she used to say, how

  this dish is made.

  But double on the spice babe,

  only white is my surname,

  it’ll be okay. Just okay,

  I still consider this tame.

  Tongue like cartoon flames.

  Rings of fire are my safe space.

  Not a fan of the electric range.

  It’s best to see a thing, go analog.

  If it’s too hands off you get lost.

  Blistered palm, fire is hot. Adjust.

  

  May 9, 2025

  Brigid, mental-health, Mother’s Day, motherhood, poetry

  ---

• Necromantic

  Lavender Latte

  I wear florals to funerals—

  some unwritten rule I suppose—

  and gods spare me hours of wake.

  An ancient lady kissed my face,

  that part’s okay. Who’s to say

  which of those present were hers.

  See something you like, lips first.

  And I wasn’t settin’ foot in that church

  without caffeine.

  Kept the whole procession waiting

  apparently. The Firstborn Son

  certainly didn’t say anything.

  Up, down, up, down, the whole

  ordeal. Some kid picked his nose

  in the front row and squealed.

  Purple lights in a bird bath,

  because Catholic. Intermittent Latin.

  When I listened,

  birdsong and children

  at play. What goes on,

  it’s my way.

  Daddy did say

  when I got a little older

  I’d notice men do whatever

  I ask. To be careful with that.

  I don’t often task

  them with things. It’s true,

  they don’t say no to me.

  Ran an asshole off the road for me.

  Threw desks and came to blows

  because someone had the audacity

  to sit in my seat.

  Native Tongue

  Everyone knows these lines:

  your name I cry aloud in the night,

  first cut of my meat and sip

  of my wine. All that is mine

  to give. Oh I live

  for my first language.

  It’s not so much English.

  It’s any instrument, rhythm

  and remnant, rhapsody revenant,

  syllabic supplicant.

  Not the what of it, the how.

  Art of the ember, breathing fire

  wherever sparks be found.

  Spirits need a house.

  There’s no home without,

  no child lost, it’s not bricks

  or mortar, it’s warmth.

  Sooner or later, sooner or later,

  you return to the earth, herself

  a molten heart, a mighty hearth.

  Grip Strength

  I’ve pulled thrice my mass

  in a deadlift. Held an opponent

  twice as big in simple guard

  until he spent. Men

  are a bit like horses in that

  you can’t force them. A man

  needs to know you understand

  when you mount him. His nature

  and what you’re askin’.

  He’ll let you

  put him through his paces,

  move forward places no horse

  can see, well the gods gave that gift

  to me. I promise you’ll feel my weight,

  it’s eternity, what’s unseen and pervades.

  I’ve infinite flair for whimsy but baby,

  I can swing. Low and deep,

  they’ve never directly observed its waves,

  perhaps a wider stance, open hands,

  an anchor out to sea. It was always

  my gravity set you free.

  

  May 3, 2025

  beltane, gothic romance, poetry, storytelling

  ---

• Whole Milk

  Roses

  That doctor asked if I had a priest

  to address what ailed me, beyond

  his scope. As if my namesake stood

  so I could go back to crawlin’.

  Darlin’ ain’t no Son with rites to this,

  I’ll bloom in perfect darkness

  if I must. Went outside, spun,

  and looked up.

  When life gives you cortisol,

  best to build muscles. Fuck it,

  why not. Every night I walk,

  sometimes until dawn, enough,

  it’s enough to wear me down.

  And now, miles and miles of muster,

  of tears, a pungent bouquet

  of desolate years. Hard won

  in desert. Here, everything bites,

  what lives does so in spite of the light.

  Oh how I long for a wintry place,

  cuddly bees and frost flocked eyes,

  woolen embrace and fresh snow bright

  in my window. Woke one morn,

  and who did see me, wood neighbors’

  tracks where they’d gone.

  Big Cow Energy

  There’s a funny man with funny hats,

  used to wear a suit. Top floor city boy,

  then one day he just quit. Said this ain’t it.

  Remembrance of happiness, wrapped up

  and split. Money can’t buy this, but

  money can buy cows. The cutest,

  Highlands, and land. He’s no rancher,

  out there in Alaska. Got them

  just to love them and left alone.

  It’s very cold. You can imagine.

  When his best girl grew old,

  still had all her teeth. Such care.

  Daily massages up to his shoulders,

  her hips did crack brittle as branches.

  He summoned the vet, gray in the eye,

  asked her so softly, is it time? Is it Time?

  Not yet, she assured. She has a good life.

  You’ve given her a good life.

  Only then did he cry.

  Solar Punkalypse

  Won’t be no Mad Max, firstly:

  scurvy. Disease, generally. Rabies.

  Can’t shoot gangrene. Horsemen, indeed.

  How quaint. Who made all your saints?

  Cooked the last supper? The red tent.

  Your four riders are these: Death

  with a shovel, muck boots, and black

  Carhartt overalls.

  Mycelium with a barrow, seedlings,

  and patchwork threads. Off in the head.

  Grandma with wizened hands, knitted

  shawl like a cottage garden, hardest

  and owed respect.

  Bard with tooth and humor, puts a beat

  and adds flavor. Power in words.

  Pulled by oxen. They don’t move fast.

  In process of proving what lasts.

  Take a tumble who strays from their path.

  Someday you’ll understand.

  

  May 1, 2025

  beltane, folk, poetry, post-apocalyptic

  ---

• New Persephone

  Pomegranate Kisses

  Honey don’t be embarrassed,

  I’ve not so much thumbs

  as two green fists

  and all them topside did need

  to learn respect. I came

  all the way down here just

  to put Spring fingers all up in it,

  this grave dirt,

  and I’ll invent winter

  to touch where that flower

  keeps roots.

  The most beautiful I’ve ever seen—

  something coming from me—

  sweetness it sure seems

  like you’ve been waiting.

  My journey was long,

  you don’t make it easy,

  and maybe this flusters your plans,

  but I’ve never met a dog

  wouldn’t be lapping my hand,

  wouldn’t lie down for the night

  or forever, suffer faithful

  by my door. In the grand

  scheme of things, one mouth

  or three, there’s fruit

  on this tree, skulls beneath.

  Sometimes I’ll leave, lest

  I love you to death.

  Burst sudden forbidden color

  when I put you to bed.

  May Day

  Full throttle V cylinder, hundreds

  fold. Superbloom furious rushes

  sand blasted roads. The ride way,

  rumbles your legs, won’t hit the chorus

  if you don’t bring the rain.

  Discordant bellows, harmony not,

  when she’s in season it’s all you’ve got,

  don’t stop, don’t stop,

  hell’s gate promises only drought.

  Harder don’t mean faster, beware,

  if you can’t take direction

  she’ll take you there: crosses

  and candles in ditches, snared.

  Gremlin Bell

  One street donkey town,

  fuzzy baby boom, driftwood janky

  and an old timey saloon. Arizona

  about sums it up. Santa Muerte

  for un-Catholics, criminals, deviants,

  or drunks. Suicide gamblers

  exsanguinated of luck.

  Our Lady of the Dead,

  a real heavy lifter, do everything

  you can before you meet her. All

  she asks for. And me, I’m a helper,

  I won’t coddle your ass, but lover,

  stay on these hips and I’ll make it

  make sense.

  Give it time, give it distance,

  light some pillars and incense,

  whatever goes bump in your nights,

  throw hands enough it’s alright.

  Told you once before, I can ride.

  Till the end or die trying, it goes.

  Don’t need prayers if I’m yours.

  

  April 27, 2025

  beltane, gothic romance, persephone, poetry, southwest

  ---

• Savage Daughter 3/3

  Empty Grave

  Take me to the deeper woods,

  I’ve brought all that we need, not much

  to be happy. I’m not fussy, I’ll dig

  a latrine. Our tent’s not huge, just room

  for two. Fire banked and coffee brewed.

  It’s no secret, I’ll stay out here

  as long as you, if you just

  stay too.

  I prefer this view.

  I like it cold because I radiate,

  I like it far because I wander,

  I like you simple on a rainy day,

  I like you close. My hands work wonders.

  If forever did exist, I’d spend it all

  just like this.

  Songs and stories and mountain mist.

  Soft silence. Juniper and spruce.

  Gone so long they think we’ve died,

  giving townsfolk a deathly fright,

  until every tree be kissed with ice,

  then, I suppose,

  we’ll go back inside.

  White Hair

  At the tip of my cervical spine,

  there’s a birthmark. No color.

  Wouldn’t realize now, it just looks

  bright. Purity isn’t about the white,

  the clean. Winter came early for me,

  when you move like a grim reaper, things

  separate, what is weak

  from what will last, know

  what is real,

  you cannot mask

  true nature.

  The purpose

  of the nursery rhyme.

  It helps you remember,

  cradle toys from the end of life.

  If you can’t teach it to a child,

  you don’t understand it

  yourself.

  These waters.

  There’s no barrier

  between young and old,

  fool and grown.

  Every story I’ve ever told—

  there’s only one ending.

  Where shall we begin?

  Mitochondrial

  All her bones were showing

  but she kept trying, heard

  the promise of me. Backwards

  uterus or not she would conceive.

  The first thing I did was force

  her to eat. I was warm,

  she felt no pain in any place,

  healthy weight and blossom faced.

  I grew at a ferocious pace, weeks early

  and I wouldn’t wait.

  Didn’t feel the pushing, either.

  Trouble is, we separate.

  Overgrowth, gnawing cells abound,

  what flew high came crashing down. Bleeds.

  Now you know what expensive means.

  Call it depression or withdrawals,

  I was something outside of herself.

  A stranger.

  It’s personal. I the Other and she

  a woman no longer. What passed

  from mother to daughter. Bones.

  Been told and told all over

  at random I’m a healer,

  but mirror mirror all I ever see

  is Her.

  April 13, 2025

  poetry, storytelling

  ---

• Savage Daughter 2/3

  Apocalypse Jelly

  Saying goes you are what you eat

  and grandpa who taught me a very busy

  bee. Seven babies of his own plus one,

  the number of instruments he played

  and sung. I do default to soldier foods:

  shit on a shingle, biscuits and gravy, sardines.

  Keep half my meal in a bag, uncertainty between.

  In the mean time, I sing.

  Well grandpa had burning passion

  for Irish verse—Shakespeare who?

  A basic hoe. I crushed his work

  at nine years old. Give me English

  with a soul. I’ll have my songs

  with meat on their bones.

  The blackest rose.

  Silver spoons puff their chests

  over plays written for the poor

  and grandpa, he carried a book

  of filthy limericks all through the war.

  World War. A curious inheritance,

  himself bein’ Norse Dutch, if askin’

  why it sounds like that at first. My verse.

  Death Roll

  It’s clear that He’s a fucking idiot,

  the same clown shit it’s ever been,

  that’s the thing about Emperors—

  they’re always naked. People forget,

  they’re just men. They’re not narcissists,

  they’re just men. They’re not special,

  they’re just men. Money don’t shield his skull,

  nor God, papers and prisons the illusion of principles,

  oops, those are spicy words. Can’t stand

  for those. You can only claim to hold

  what you’ll sacrifice for. Your innocence for.

  You ignorance for. Your hands.

  When my line of colonized mothers

  look to me from beyond, I don’t ignore

  this slight to them. Their ancestral land

  in rapists’ hands. Forests of plenty

  turned to sand.

  Laughing Matter

  She said she knew it

  when she saw me dancing

  all alone among the trees.

  We’d go down together, free

  as Anne Bonny and Mary Read.

  Nothing I could ever do, damn

  the rumors. If all be true.

  Call us sisters, like those two girls

  from Wolfwalkers. Wild hearts

  howling at the moon.

  Hyenas, Ice Queen and Medusa,

  bonding over Silent Hill songs in her room.

  We won’t smile for you. That much

  bleeds through. Pants down maybe

  we’ll be amused. Made a family

  of sorts—your church-nerd sons

  call me father now, who disowned who?

  All that trash you thought made men,

  spooked the Holy Ghost right out of ’em.

  You’re welcome.

  April 11, 2025

  poetry

  ---

• Savage Daughter 1/3

  Well Wishes

  You smack my mouth

  for speaking truth, I snap

  back twice as hard. Evil

  is such a careless word.

  My very first word

  on this dying earth

  was bite.

  A girl with an appetite,

  that’s me raiding cupboards

  in the middle of the night.

  My hunger offends in the daytime,

  I’ll just take what’s mine, too expensive,

  expansive, I go on the offensive.

  I’m a good girl, not a nice girl.

  Didn’t feel the difference at your hands.

  I knew it when I counted what I loved

  into the darkness at every scathing reprimand.

  A crumpled pillow list, wonder who heard it,

  on the floor somewhere. Under the bed. Down

  an empty street in the wind. My birth

  a bitter dream come true, wonder

  who wished for me too.

  Wanted Woman

  With child Isis hid

  among crocodiles in a river cave.

  Notorious single mothers, jaws

  can crush car bumpers or

  ferry hatchlings in their wicked

  grins. Thick skin. Armor even.

  Come mating season longest lived

  has her pick. Survival depends

  on this experience, haven’t

  seen fit to change it in, oh,

  85 million years. Ancient,

  was it comfort, a natal dark,

  like the Nut sky who raised her,

  stretched over, making love to the earth,

  too hot to touch each other, stolen

  pleasure between punishing heat spells,

  they’re about language. Not for no reason,

  she the master magician, skill enough

  to wield the Sun god’s own name.

  She made her way. The way I wove

  quail bush tunnels by the river as I couldn’t go

  home.

  Water Walking

  If you’ve never had to carry

  five gallon buckets full

  or bathe with a hose outside,

  you’re in luck. It sucks, obviously.

  Not the outside. That’s alright.

  Coulda been worse, don’t get me

  wrong. I don’t shrink from the fight.

  Sometimes, you know, it would just be

  nice

  not to wake up and cry like clockwork,

  a pacemaker, I’m grateful for those times.

  Concurrent streams. Then and now make we,

  tense a meaningless technicality, she

  is the girl I used to be. Always present

  in times of great need. The seed,

  for raindrops and teardrops as precious

  as grain. In the desert if you hope

  to feed.

  April 10, 2025

  environment, mythology, poetry

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