If You Want to Sing Out...I don't always dream of ephemeral things
like drops of dew on fur,
or the snark that lives in each breath,
Some things linger.
The taste of sweet flesh.
The orchids that grow from her hair,
their scattered open flowers, dried in the only warm room in the house
I hung myself today,
my mother ordered me down,
towed my hearse.
She wants me to find love.
I told her I was getting married.
The crinkle orchid flowers are all that's left.
I put them in a glass jar
like the butterflies,
so they linger.
Wake to a cold sweatThe winter rungs of the ladder grab back at gloveless sweaty palms who scramble up, running from some hollow screaming below to a point of light as far out of reach as the stars. The grotesque things that steal children's voices began to climb her Rapunzel hair, sharpening their claws as they slide closer.
Nothing left to burnHave you ever played with fire?
Seen the ochre fields evaporate its orange leaving black
Ash that floats under foot clinging to scorched boots,
Who's feet inside dance about?
Have you tested a match and thrown it in grass
By your parents shed before they drove to Grand Rapids
Only to get a phone call once you got there;
Your only regret being you weren't there to see it dance
But being well pleased with the melted glass
In wonderful patterned fractured globs?
Did you ride your bike up the hill by your house
To see the firefighters fling water desperately on barn
Overtaken by flickering imps, dancing from earth to sky
Seeing the gaping maw of the building welcoming you to its belly?
Sometimes my fingers still trace the edges of imps
Imprisoned in glass houses with wax floors,
The tiny dancers I refuse to let out to the world.
Sometimes I still chase sirens to billows of smoke.