The day swallowed; in
the sun too long,
burning, I would run,
always behind a
shadow, a butterfly
I think, following
one created small, too –
carried with the wind
when it gusts, wings
assumed by outline
of one who flies.
Either way, the reminder of
fragility, to be made barely,
front a too bright light, colorless
and I know looking back pointless;
she follows whether I look or
do not see, so I found
a place with the trees
once – how I felt held
light as a paper; they reminded
of my father, catching
where made empty by an arm
with too needy of so much
and I un-did a bit,
unfolded at the feet
of every giant – a
once girl, become
heavy with rain
marking outline of roots
upon a blank page kept
in the back pocket,
to be impressed upon
like a map presses,
a way to the third self,
as infinite as the tree
I chose as mother, who
is here always by choice,
my own at least – without
taking of it, only the way
I feel be-side, leaning
upon, just a bit
into a way that would
choose life despite,
feeling like work
has been done/
I can fold along old creases
I felt once my weakness
as if how we begin is
the cause of pain,
and twice a child,
once pressed quiet as
a blanket ironed flat
is made agreeable,
draped upon, to fill gaps
and shaded places
of the one who
made her –
the first rendering,
draping upon every
coldness in the self
like a tree feasts on the
own, fallen leaves.
Tag: abuse
Surfside
A stone in the sand
dents me
at the edge of frailty –
I am of parts, jagged as
the coastline where
the tide pushed,
having gone far now
from the beginning
like my mother went
back, where waters were
warm, where the ocean
kept a song of us she
never stopped loving,
and she tried more than
many will need
having, on cruelty,
a softness she built up
and beneath it a knife
always ready;
sensing it there
held even in sleep,
the forced inattention to
giggle when she would laugh to
stay silent unless agreeing –
and I existed in fable
taking on too much water
and snapped as the rebar
too solid and needy broke,
and dropped in pieces
like every stone
left in places I felt free –
every bit of that old heart
except what gave purpose
left behind, grabbing
at leaves and sky, ravenous
feeling their immortality, their
constant warmth like
a mother’s love,
gone before it was gone.
Adaptation
Once living in blue,
how deep the hand in my head
loved by a hungry sky
would become sharp of edges,
ripped my born wings that
a songbird bound; crawled
crushed flowers placed
in pockets I thought
could weave a crown.
It was that I knew first
having arms of cirrus:
insubstantial and searching
like water feels every
form of inauthenticity
and fills it;
I would bleed when needed
and not wanting to die
have untied each
found fiction to see
its kinked rope.
When once there was
first, forced inattention
like my mother unable to
hug when unwatched
could it be enough
that never like her father
left her broken,
she only left –
and a love that made me
has tried to take me
and save me same
stumbling into what is
familiar, many times
until older, I have felt
long beneath a snow
like a seed dreams of
a tree they will know.
skipping stones 