I followed a wolf into a star and locked us inside the heat. My fingers traveled through the fur and the sky was on fire. Somewhere inside forever we found the burn. The sizzle that only comes with time and the rhythmic tick that stops for no thing. I’ve wondered if you’ve ever felt this powerful. If inside the majesty of this bond was hiding the way heaven feels…like how our breath catches on the wave of a heart beat. How no one ever knew how fierce that storm could be. How it pinned my heart, a feather against this lightning bolt. How alive it feels to be something everything wants to kill and how invincible your touch…could make me.
Push it against your nose. Sweet smells and summertime. Juice running down your cheeks. Shapes like smiles and laughter. Sticky fingers laced together and sunshine. Running the 50 yard dash on stick legs. Leaning into the sky. Knowing you’d catch me.
Her hands so soft. Made of pillows and sometimes pine needles. Prickly when upset and smooth when comforting. Smell the way sugar bombards the senses. Special treat. Heat.
You carry in the cardinal’s song. Cut fruit and rhyme. You carry in my voices and my rebellion. Sweet teeth and harmonica’s pitch. Somewhere teaching children of ripe pickings. Of cussing in two languages. Of love.
Somewhere heaving worlds on shoulders. Cotton picks and bluebonnets. Laying against the earth you grew.
Take this fruit. Place it against your nose. Inhale. The sweet scent of your matriarchy.
Link to work: http://www.glass-poetry.com/journal/2017/march/moran-luna.html
The moon was absent the night we watched Pollox and Caster. It was more than a normal absence. It was purposeful. You were all dark blue and lake water. Fresh air and cool water breeze.
The moon was absent the night I planted a tree. Felt the deep urge to grow in blackness. To feed off of the hurt. You placed your hands in that charcoal dirt, covered and muddied with it like it was nothing. Looking at you drowned in my own disgust I wanted your hands on me more then. To feel but not see the way your dirtied fingerprints just might replace his.
The moon was absent the night I looked high cursing everything above me. It felt my anger and left before the scolding. Left the blame to the stars and sleeping sun.
The moon was absent the night I found myself. When significance was pondered and I felt larger than ever before. Larger than the sun and all the constell...
What do you keep in the barrels of your backroom? The ones you nail shut and forget about? How many versions of people do you store there? Does the sexual prowess of uncles, brothers, fathers and lovers have a home there?
How many barrels have we filled to protect those we love? How much pain do we lock away there? Does all the hurt in the world end up there? When you question God, when you question our culture, our government, our life, why he put his hands elsewhere… does that doubt take up residence in that enclosed darkness?
Do we nail up the survivors too? Do we forget about them because they keep moving? Because they go on with life? Do we lock away the idea that somewhere inside them they’re hurting?
Can you tell me what sort of nails you use? Because… they must be very special nails to keep all that pain from pouring out.
Tell me what makes a man so special that you’d store a dau...
The gypsy found the chasm and down she went. Feeling like Alice on a heavier day. Bright lights and sparks. Boots and tamberines.
She fell so hard. Carrying all those things that she carried. The things we all carry. The jingle and the jangle and the glitter that weighs like mountains. The power in a voice and how it makes you a God.
How sometimes they called you a Queen but then they forget and the glitter fades.
The bottom wasn’t as dank as she worried. There was no dormouse or white rabbit. Just the sputtering of white dove wings.
Illusions. All illusions and nowhere to run.
A laced hand placed against a mirror. A beat of a drum. The hum of falling to the other side. And in the peripheral the outstretched smirk of a Cheshire cat. Larger than the sun.
The wonder and the wandering your mind does. How they said the masses were weapons and they were coming for who you weren’t.