I’m so lucky I found this
    found what, you say

 

found a way to stretch a grave
into a gauntlet.

 

“birth”

 

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I used to be an empty room.
Now I’m filled with things,
stored with things,
so many things that used to be
blank space.

Once I was a lush terrain
but you drove me to the sand and
buried me beneath barren
plains, you sewed
my lips, urged
no complaints.
For food and pleasure,
I hunted mice like a
snake.
I felt things move underground
and crept along the bottom and
leapt with precision at the blood
I was following.
When I dined it was sudden,
my jaw unhinged and my prey
paralyzed not by the shock,
but the lie now unhidden that they
knew one day it will come,
but not today.

We must imagine all the water
that my life,
had it blossomed to a greater age,
would have had us taste.
We would be together
slurping at the pacifying waves
as they broke on our
feet and you would urge me
to show you how I grow and shrink
with each lunar cycle.
You have wasted me.

Now you fill me with your scorching skies,
your brutal starless nights,
until the holes in every dune you hid me under
are pouring blood,
pouring hurts,
pouring cries loud enough to form
mirages shaped like traps,
shaped like mice for other snakes
to catch.
I’m down and dried and scared of Earth.
I’m roaming giant sandboxes in culverts
following the Atlantic’s soporific siren
voice, seeking creeks and little dots of
white remorse.
Temperature changes.
Snow in winter.
Roads paved in ice.
I’m riding the scales of other hunters
to bring me oceans, to bring me
people to swallow.
My mouth is big enough.
Remember, this is how you’d
rather have it:

I once was a space of bright, blue lakes
but now I’m rolling east
and ready to break
like a tidal wave
chasing the coast
out of habit
and I am bursting
with black magic.

“the desert pt. 2”

I live in a heart that is a
strip of small jungle;
it is quiet still threads of sticky white
that dazzle quickly before they
trap and capture.
To see them,
you have to have
the right lighting.

My body is the night forest,
and my limbs stretch wide
like fields of pines
containing all the living;
all their howls, their cries,
their broken limbs, their
broken packs and pacts,
their starvation and all the detritus
that supply them with their ground
to cover,
to abate their hunger.
You are led by sound,
not sight, and you are walking
blind into my
creation.

I was lucky with a moon.
When you looked directly at me
you shined, and you saw your death
that you would face
inside of mine.
What does war feel like?
I asked him as he lay
praying on my doorstep.
I crawled hastily
to his side the minute I felt
the vibration of his
sudden landing.
I did not delay pulling out my
desiccating fangs;
submit to the drying I love,
the desert he wanted,
taste his anguish in surrender,
himself suspended in
air like a hierophant
divined and now martyred
into angel,
into innocent sufferer.
His visions true.
With me, he would
fly.

He stared straight up
blessing every constellation
that grazed us as I dined:
it is the capture of all that you
have hunted, and the longing
that remains unremitting even
as you sip the last lush vein
of your prey.
It is the emptiness of digestion,
of excretion, of forgetting,
and wanting all of the time
more and more.
War is the hunt
we ask for.

Is love the surrender?
I moved in and out
of starlight so he could
see the clever thing that
lured him here to
waiting ambush,
he the stalking cat,
she the patient coffin
that lay him when he
fell.
I wrapped my pines around him,
delivered the cathedral he
earned, the beauty of
the night.   The crickets
loudened, and the wolf hide
I draped myself in
to chase him through his every cycle,
wriggled in a sudden breeze
on a branch high enough for him
to see as his eyes shut,
dancing.

And he faced me with fatality:
love is everything you’ve ever felt
unobstructed by your meaning
about it; untouched by your
lethal prose.

I wrapped him in
silk and silence,
not a verse to shake
the immaculate heart
between us.
His dying wish:
to feel what it was
that led us
here, still and
unobscured;
the place I rest
my violence.

“homes”

.

 

sparkling explosions of
cellophane and
champagne nails down the back,
fallen glitter eyeshadow,
bare mattress,
a girl licking a cheek and a
rolling bare tear,
somewhere far but quite
near.
hearts burst like red lava
to fill the blue gray cracks
that December left.
ghost stories and berries
in bed,
mouth filled with laughs.

I’m naked wrapped
in an afghan
with someone else.

“Somewhere Else”

shredded letters I tried using as
fertilizer  to grow something from our
valediction,
and our breath:
beryl droplets of sweet
miserable text
coalescing
into coffins.

the litter isn’t enough to change,
so I’m buying house plants
to welcome fresh life into this house.
cacti look like your middle fingers in the morning.
the cat eats the tulips, but
she leaves the sunflowers be.
I host orchids when I am feeling
extra ambitious;
something special about the way they wilt
in too much sunlight.
there’s too much oxygen in here.
it’s mostly  coalescing
into coffins.

I’m choking on particles of cat piss
and thorns
and a sprinkle
of pollen.
my floor is covered in rose
decay and this
is a graveyard
doused in dead blossoms.

“Monday, and all the songs are about you.”