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nighttime orison

nighttime orison blue ink and again,  that same story of mine--  scrawled like prayers I loathe to utter. like how I told you  it's okay  if not today,  while I was alone I told the Moon  about our world--  the stolen remorse  in my chest.  that dented  soda can I keep in my dresser, just one of many  little chances I hide. those crumbs beneath the table,  lines of ants I led back home;  staggered trails,  don't get left behind. the hair I cut  and buried  beneath the flower bed, so the violets  as they grow will remember my name. won't you take a bite  out of this  leaden offering,  Moon,  taste the stars I tried  to swallow--  dried and crumbled  saltines.  her light sits  on my windowsill,  and sometimes, ad astra per aspera,  I tell her your name.
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d.c. al coda

d.c. al coda squinted eyes poring over your words   until  golden hour  comes to pass-- the window blinds spilling light in tiger stripes. wait  as though  I will leave  at any minute-- barefoot,  poised to trip over  the page break.  times new roman,  12 point font-- sharp edges,  phrased  with no place to roost. wait  until the  water runs tepid down the shore-- until the dragonflies  fall silent,  the ivory notes  of their waltz  slowing,  morendo.  eyes drooping, fermata drawn out-- your lines are bitten to the quick,  yet the last stroke leaves me 
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sweet enough?

sweet enough? scraping  the rind dry, everything I had I gave you; pomegranate seeds wedging beneath my gritty nails-- love,  yours truly. good  for a moment, this blood-flesh-bone donation-- watching you peel open the gristle,  a red-white picnic.   I never found out how it tasted-- loved,  yours truly. my mind fuzzy,  adrift-- tucked somewhere beneath your tongue as it worked  up and down,  as you chewed and chewed  and chewed. funny how I didn't notice,  later, when you left.  only thought with abrupt wonder looking at the husk: where is  the pomegranate? when am I getting it back?
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at the blue hour

at the blue hour I let the sunset outrun me as I board the last train home.  thought I outgrew  these old habits,  and yet  I still sit  in the window seat to watch  my reflection ripple across amber fields,  wondering  how it must feel  to hop the fence-- join the imaginary friend who was always  running,  running alongside. a flock of geese  glides past as one,  cutting,  angular-- their edges teasing the clouds.  I used to collect  their feathers,  left behind  like wilted leaves-- soft and unbroken.  lather them  with hand soap-- you said  they were dirty;  the fibers darkening into clumps. how easily  they came apart,  those split ends,  loose stitches  running out.  you told me  feathers were a bad omen,  wisps fallen away  from home.  I think we both knew  they were easier to blame than the flock. 
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meditations on morning tea

meditations on morning tea the kettle calls for me  every morning and I greet it  with pitted skin, a yawning red mouth.  the hair I weave  around a fingertip-- falling, smeared like hasty brushstrokes across the kitchen floor.  the world is hungry,  overgrown weeds spilling over the curb.  nibbling at my face imploringly, can't I spare something to eat, to give? the kettle whistles,  impatient for tea.  ginger, chamomile,  cardamom pods I turn,  prayer beads  from palm to palm. they say  the finest tea  has two leaves and a bud.  an aroma that unfurls,  lingering presence  over your shoulder.  i wouldn't know for sure.  they all taste of  parchment paper,  the hands of farm workers i'll never meet.   green, dissolving into a mossy pond.  to think that we fought wars  over  the solitude of morning.  in answer,  steam rises  from my mug  an...
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