trace where the line
could you feather, could you wing,
in abeyance to your spine?
what cracks the sun
from dream to dawn
to fingertips again
the kingdom of your solitude
to lick the red wound clean?
spell for home
it’s stagnant here sister, this collection of shape-shifting walls. this staging of paint and glass with a choke hold on your breast.
do you remember when you were all wave crests and luminous jewels? how the moon syruped your back, coated you like honey and you sang its song till dawn? stumbling home star-drunk with lullabies on your tongue? don’t lose sight of this one sacred vessel. force your legs forward, your feet to find forest. tiny birds, bellflowers are waiting for the blessing of your petal tender steps. remember home.
your blood perfume
will always howl to the fecund moon;
your orchid limbs
playing at the serenity of dance
the streetlights clutch their pearls
in your presence
burning coyly through the flame of desire
choke back the burgundy curtains
the wind will carry you into the night
as light as a raven’s feather.
and you will be home.
cut until i see stars
each body is a miracle
the generations of women before me
passed down the knowledge of measuring strength with pain
pour wine on the wound, one says
put rouge on the wound, another
instead i try to free the spirit
i could cut until i was thin
i could cut until i see stars
instead, i scrape enough flesh
to be beautiful to men
who want to pour more pain into the urn
it is so full