I had been sleeping with
A distant bearded man
Who seemed to hate me
For being human.
I had never known that there was
Anything else other
Than my own sin.
“God was once a woman, Did you know that?”
My grandmother said as she
Plucked a yellow dandelion From it’s roots in the earth.
“Then there were many Gods. Always
Someone to pray to for something.”
“In ancient languages Virgin
Meant One Unto Herself”
But my body no longer bleeds. I spend life with knees
Bent onto cold concrete, While my ancestors
Sang with the moon,
Made love with the earth.
I speak to my grandmother
Through the relics called flowers
But her ashes lay cold
In a church.
Love sprung unknown. Birth me,
The gentle sin
Blushing rough devotion
Holy kiss, Holy Lips
O, then, do not move- Move not.
Night, rich beauty,
Soft light, the envious moon,
Pale with grief,
Fair but sick.
My love speaks yet says nothing.
Stars do entreat her eyes.
Fiery night. Love-performing night. Unseen rites.
Come, maidenhoods Hood my blood
With thy strange love. Come night
Give me my stars.
Make Heaven in
Love with night.
Glass is a slow moving liquid It dripped
Through my body.
Biting and Hot.
When the windshield shielded no longer,
There was no seatbelt hugging my lap, screaming into my pelvis, “I won’t let you go head first.”
Glass is a slow moving liquid,
I was not. I broke through the pane.
The air rushes in and takes from my lungs unspoken words. Opening my mouth, needed to scream-
Only dead silence.
In that moment,
My mind slowed down to glass time.
Motion became almost unbearably sedate.
I am unable to change directions but I can see which direction I would like to go: Back.
This is the
closest I’ve felt to flying.
This is the
closest I’ve come to finding the un-seen world called Death.
This is not the end.
Glass only lasts so long in one formation.
When left unattended,
Stained glass windows will move on their own.
In abandoned places of worship, in forgotten homes, in antique shops, Glass becomes warped and curved in places it wasn’t before.
Still the tides change We restore glass
Or our bodies
Still, liquid moves
In directions we cannot control.
Mad at my bones for being so soft. So much like glass. I stain myself and change.
You are whispers of wildflowers
Untouched by light,
Growing by your own conviction.
When the garden has wilted,
And the trees plunge
Deeper into the ground,
Effulgently, you glisten.
As if the world itself has turned Inside out.
I fall in love with death.
But the wind,
There is no land
But the fields of your skin.
Time, seasons, no longer exist.
Our lamps are moons
Our rugs are in bloom
Our bed, soft clay for growing
Outside our front door,
Are damp and quiet winters.
But here, our other-world is
Overflowing in sun. Elysium is jealous.
Nourished by the earth of our hands.
Fields of wheat fill our kitchen,
We harvest for each other’s lips.