I want to acknowledge that the topics mentioned may be triggering. This is a content warning as the following information relates to a convicted pedophile and CSA.
you wound me
A lotus dress with lace
I’m pissed at God, but tell me who has not been,
and because I dream, my skull surfs in torrents
psyche-reaped and kissed
into a lushed womb where
coiling into my lap, she lay
Have you ever written a poem that was just… WAY too personal for anyone else to read?
variegated in singes; touches of her neck and wrist, contused
in no promises, only the sprawl of remembrance gets darker
In the present moment, she awaited the inevitable. She strayed from Oktavia even more so—to the point the human noticed her odd looks and disappointment; their hands had bumped into each other when trying to reach for the artificial sweetener jar—and Mischa flinched like a fish waiting to be gutted by their captor.
In retrospect, however–
My hero turned out to be a monster,
it sinks further in my chest; frail leaves
and empty words spill—spill
how precise and anticlastic
as if each horror you provoked
could somehow make me want you
like abandoned memories, recalled by my mother
like when my grandfather said
“I’m going to kill you” while counting money
with no thread of flowers
to plant your feet on, and into morning air
at a hotel room
remembering that’s what home felt like.
O I had bad dreams; I was wooded into the sand,
lady, I am dead from you all
I found a dead deer in the road
at the same time my dad told me not to look;
Do not tell me what I was
to redraw that cold war face,
to see a woman of what I bleed
sometimes, I wish I were like that. don’t you.
how do you break off from yourself
do you ever think about it?
Father, I love you,
as the orange of the sunset fades to the ship’s berth,
to the fields of a cherry birdsong so darken like a lute,
your song purifies my broken soul
father, you are everything, my world, myself,
I love you.
Through the smokestacks
there is the death of me
as I pass the hills.
in sumac touches
she waits for me or doesn’t
as if I held her hand, full of regret. A weeping willow rejects me
breathing in my cigarettes,
death’s in the traveler
being left alone in Italy; from the garden,
all bodied, all that red and bleak
I sit at her bedroom window
an age where branches hung themselves Antigone.