Not your hang-girl,
not in the sun, syrup
from plump figs/no,
the frozen place near
Saint Helens where I
breathed in the cold
burned and made the heart
drum/ with bracing rhythm
that holds a long winter.
There is always a certain
in a man’s face, the wrong
things my father said and
I was just pretty enough
he said, too. I know also
aligned to a certain danger,
the threat of beauty palpable,
my snow-blind, hardened ice;
the warmth of dreams
a river beneath, ends in
my mouth | flowers,
blue asters and jasmine like
new stars beyond the moon.
I prefer crush like heavy
to feel the world outweigh
things unneeded : the desire
of life without pain without
poems without the color
of indigo,
how someone might look this way:
shakes the pollen free>
but I need the weight
the way known
the heart blooms in
the shade of black
irises, muddy feet running
toward thunder.
In Due Proportion 