Embers in my hair, black dust getting to my lungs. Red, yellow, purple, blue fire in front of me, behind me, beside me. Above and below me. Within me.

bent backs

grasses bent in a tweak of fingers

bent my fingers bent my bones

my toes in

earth sweating dew

digging a way out

sweetness

sucking on a single clover

I will count them all

shards of glass in the mirror

every part of me adds

up to nothing

I’m standing in front of violets

in front of a Renaissance painting

and wondering what do I have

When we finally start talking to each other after the fall, huddling on the side of the island where the black-eyed humans can’t hear us, we all tell the same story. A day that started with the sun rising and waking up and going off to whatever it is we do during the day.

Let’s make one thing clear:

there wasn’t a big bad wolf.

Not in my story.

There was no screaming

and running of little girls.

This is an old story;

One where

the structure of power

that had devoured

momma momma momma

it was ricky it was ricky

momma don’t believe that it was ricky who done it

she thinks i killed him

momma momma momma

don’t call the fuzz

it was ricky it was ricky

in this town

words hold hostages

not meaning.

if i cry i will

bleed, and i will

lose,

integrity and i will

rip apart the frontdrop that has

made my portraits pretty

for (maybe) minutes on end.

I’ve never understood why people are so disgusted

by silverfish.

I like the little guys.

They way they scurry around from place to place,

they’ve always got somewhere to be,

perhaps because they don’t like where they are.

I feel that if I move from this spot I will die. But I take a step forward and don’t.

Forgive me father for I have sinned.

Once, before the people moved in,

before they took my brothers

and sisters

and cousins

and friends,

I saw the sun.

I grew up

and I grew strong,

trying to reach the sky.

I meant to make

I wake before you and in the darkness,

I don’t recognize you right away.

Your lashes bring their own light,

full like fields of crows,

a murder of crows. The birds nested

on the hill I’m sure I’ve told you about

Pouring all of the liquor you can find in the house down the drain is the most fun the daughter of an alcoholic can have without attending therapy. Isn’t that how the saying goes?

who cares about that umbilical cord when it doesn’t stop you from hurting me

you say I’m part of you but I feel you don’t love every part of me

let’s go through my childhood book of memories

earliest one my neck falling backwards

7 november 2017 (sight)

your veiny, wan feet/expansion/between you/the floorboards/creation of

     space

smacking the granite countertop breaks

     infinity they say

This is the pretend-dream,

where I am teaching you to swim,

and your body and my body

remember their names in the water.

She whispers in my ear when hugging me

I want to stay here forever

I don’t want to go

I’m driftwood

I don’t ever stay for long

But I don’t have the strength to pull away

It’s 10 pm on a cold-for-California winter night, and there’s nothing I want to do more than to leave the ice cream shop. I drag the mop along the floor behind me, letting its weight act as an excuse for my lack of movement.

I know

that when I die

I’ll sink into the soil

Be eaten by all the things I’ve eaten

Become the dirt for all to walk upon

I know that my thoughts are just neurons firing

That my heart is a collection of molecules

I am from hard worn leather beneath my feet.

Watching my second home from my favorite place,

4 feet above the ground.

From sounds of gymnastics filling my ears

to a layer of chalk and sweat that coats everything from my

There’s a question in her blue, misty eyes.

His don’t answer.

Hey, I miss you

School started yesterday and

I really couldn’t stand

You not being there

They had a pasta bar in the cafeteria

The germs wouldn’t mesh well with your hypochondria,

But the butter noodles were okay

Tissues.

Litter my floor.

Scraps of Paper.

Crumpled and overflowing my recycling bin.

Eraser bits.

Cover my desk until the pale wood looks black.

You were my

Spaghetti boyfriend

Blonde

Full of spaghetti

That’s all I really

Know about you

You were my

Only friend

Bright

Full of potential

It’s strange how I don’t

Remember you

Typing the conclusion of my English essay,

in a loud, dimly lit coffee shop,

I peer over my laptop screen

and see the type of girl you only see

in pictures.