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Your wet chest holds more memories than any skull
- living or dead. I’ve seen your chisel of a sternum, your breastplate of old bricks. Have they served you well? Does the safe house still stand? Paint the white porch ceiling haint blue. Spirits might come knocking. The watch turns to warning - a new eye approaches. I know your safe house stands. There’s no tired wind snake-rattling your chest, no red clay clogging veins. That false train rumble will take us back to your door. All dirt roads and branch waters come home to Bama. ... Published in Cypress: A Literary Journal
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my mama’s purple leather jacket:
a gift of a gift. dry skin squeaks as faults stick-slip ‘tween creases. memories of a long-gone youth preserved. polishing deep purple with oil (like greasing my scalp before bed). what’s good for skin is good for skin. we crave touch. once the cowhide has been dyed and stitched, no one remembers the innards or teeth. This lining is cool burgundy, and the leather creases perfectly with my face: a gift of a gift. skin of my skin. ... Published in Cypress: A Literary Journal see the tree
light the forest. know her name ~ My face rests inside eyes, but leaves only see their own green-tinted nights. No one makes the way for me: it all leads north. A cataracted sky looks on. Ripe berries burst - broken capillary cheeks in sweet-smelling rivers. ~ a choice waits to be made anew. none are chosen ... Published in Cypress: A Literary Journal listening on the couch
birds sing the unknown hours we are not the same ... Published in dreams walking Brag about the voice
of a woman with her skirt hem in the mud; her hair lags behind. Come here and have a swig of tide for your thirst. I never got my toes wet nor walked far from that grave. The net kept me from another loss. ... Published in dreams walking |
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