March 14, 2014

Soul sister and lover,
in dreams I kiss your lips and
you cry in my arms, hush now

My breath into your ear whispering
sounds of a language not native to

Goo goo gaaa gaaa

I think you are better than
me, like these nails which dance up
and down my back, sings
poems into spines, written
by the ghost in your bedroom.

Cosmos fall from these pages, sister,
and dust in the eyes, only a subversion
from the spaces between black ink so
that each word is only a stain in the back of
my head because they are me and you
are the wind blowing the leaves
so that they make a despairing droning sound.

These fingertips scream dark truths
into a lonely room and me, the object of such truths
as whole and real as the tap in my heart, the purr
in my scream and you, the author and you,
the housewife.

I think, I need to, fix your badly burned
insides because you are me and I
am the flower inside each restless soul and you
are a watering can only half full.

Dear Sylvia, my best friend and

you are the painful cracking
of leaves as I walk, the wet tears on a stone
near the pond. You are my fingertips
and my nightmares.


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