I bought my sweet boy with
a years worth of eleven-elevens
and an apron-full of white petals.

I won him from an army of ghosts
by leading him by the hand
and never looking back.

I earned him for a price
that I, vagabond, must rent
his heart in which to live.

For I have nothing of my own.
Not anymore.

my hands are mumbling something about
moments of grandeur, philosophy of life
words already spoke- world could live without
why choose I fear quiet as real as a knife?

a predicta-poet who's turned all her tricks
will the page weary of the same tattoos
will syllables return to rocks and sticks
will the parables fade, the truths misconstrue?

my fingers shake upon the keys
if I cease to murmur, will I cease to be?

It must sound novel enough to uplift you
but familiar enough to be nostalgic.
So that you feel as though you are Home...
but ready to believe in love again.

Your little eyes, they recall the words of broken hands
the secret that makes a mouth beautiful under the red air
A boy, feeling gold, reaches with garden fingers
to touch a good dark woman, her throat opening.

The Ancient Wolf cries, "November!"
and the city finds ice within these healing syllables.
The Secret Fox photographs a moment,
the inside moment of a man, waiting for blackberries
and pretty love.

If I use the right words
anything I say in these first three lines
will urge you to



Point made.

You're an hour ahead of me,
so when I think good morning now,
did you feel it a while ago?

Did it settle in your pulse?
A warm sudden second?
Anything?

My heart is dead with missing you.
This is not a poem-
but calling it so
is the polish that makes pain
speakable.

Clenching my throat in resistance
I'd like... to reach down deep
pull myself inside out
but I'd never want you to see that.
This wicked penance holds charms
but only for me
like every great lie
full of empty beauty.

These gasps of light
are the gaps in tonight
these downward globes
of ivory snow.

The world didn't end.
The world
didn't.

My bones lie aching here
writing for love
in this borrowed new year.

I know not whom
I hold most dear
How do I face
The world didn't end...
*another new year?

strolling down main i first heard
your laugh (before I met you) i find
it's your fortune to laugh always at
the joy that is your mind

i first watched you move in maths
to make wood moan and sing
feeling you play you'd know my heart
realized in strings

passing notes in the middle-night to
discuss a light, your dreams of colour
or a flash of cosmic bright

we found our best jokes
at the last page of books
and the bottom of teacups
and in quiet looks

your heart is all air
and never alone
you will find your own way
you are already home.

you're playing piano
notice naught but your psalm
as i drink my soy milk
trace your name in my palm.

you're stumbling through chords
i'm stumbling through feelings
it's my quiet reward
the delight of revealing

scripting my secrets
growing more bold
things i've far yet to tell you
things i've already told.

The slow expand of your pupils
was a synonym for love in
the greatest minimalist sonnet
ever writ.

Over the board, your faces urges 'your move',
I look down at my row of letters
weigh the points
and know you've won.

Break my will, but not my heart
break your word, but not my heart
break my mind, but not my heart
it was broken long before the start.

I  a m  b e ll y up
w ait ing f or the g ull s.

Truly, the pen is mightier.
Not a hundred love letters could staunch the bleeding-
the deadly **** of a single journal reading.

Grief is difference since you
and maybe you arrived just when I
needed you to
Because of the people so precious who left when you'd only
just gotten here
When I wanted to drift up to the night sky
to that place in the stars
where my loss might resound til I lose myself in it completely
There was you.
There were your tiny pink hands
reaching for my body, your only home
Tethering me fast to the earth
So I held my mountains strong
and willed my oceans calm
and remained your safe world.
I miss them.
I miss them so much and
nothing makes sense
except this,
So I'll allow myself to be both there, and here,
and allow myself to be warmed by the joy of nurturing you,
my tiny love.
Because
Even though it hurts
Even though it hurts like a -mother-
Now I've got to hurt
Like a mother