Burning

February 27, 2014

Burning

Bonfire: primal scent of woodsmoke,

red beacon, warning sign, wild dare

to the prowling, predatory darkness.

And here, in our backyard,

safe as we are on the patch of land we claim,

even here, as the light flickers in your dark eyes,

you can still hear the old nightmares calling.

And the embers drift up to the firefly flames

of the ancient Andromeda stars.

Annadale

February 11, 2014

Annadale

In the town where I grew up,

in the gray, green-shuttered house, our yard

teemed with crocuses in the spring.

Like spearheads or neat rows

of pale pointed teeth, greedy fingers

digging up through soil and snow,

heads of scepters, regal crocuses,

sprouting in unmistakable, glossy,

royal colors—pure eggshell, deep yellow,

lavender and violet—petals growing

thick with secrets, until finally unfolding like dawn

breaking, hungry flower mouths opening

wide. I would tuck the thin,

waxy stems behind my ears as charms against evil,

or make the blossoms a crown and become

the Faerie Queen of Annadale, barefoot and wild,

breath like magic blooming in my chest

as I commanded swarms of pixies and sprites

against the shadows of snap-dragons,

fighting and dancing until falling back

breathless, glowing in the late sunlight, my arms

outstretched, my hands turned skyward,

my toes curling in the cool grass.

And even now in these winter days, these waiting days,

days that wear gray skies and thin light,

I test the air, and watch the ground,

listen for the distant drumming:

the sign that the world is once again

on the cusp of crocuses.

better than bitter

December 7, 2011

better than bitter

hissing, spitting, the wind takes my hair in fingers

that are like yours except much, much more

harsh.  damn.  I took a walk to clear my head, but

all I can think about is you, you, you, and how I’m going to have to write

some really bad poetry.  these trite phrases keep beating

in my head like the ticking of clocks, a metronome to my own

insomnia – I hammer the same old words into place,

trying to find the right angles, like leaves against the wind

in a storm, but somehow everything comes out in a snowy

slush.  I miss your run-on sentences, your definitions

of words that don’t exist.  I want to say something

that’s as lovely as you are, something as real as rays of moonlight

spilling out onto wet asphalt.  I want to write

things that are barebacked and blackened

like church steeples and treble clefs.  but now,

I am famine-struck, and

    red as hunger.