that dark mystery

a thousand old beaches
feel that sleep, in a simple way,
holds buried spirit

those waves stir
the rocks deeper than
that dark mystery

in the throat of a
most ancient
music, I,
all marble and salt,
listen

since the
arsenical lobster
exhausts the
voice of shadows,
listeners,
in liquid flesh,
raise their contours
to silent contemplation

but I,
unforeseen,
must bow to
weeping,
and the damp wonder
of gypsum roots,
from which flow
the dark sounds
of the spirit

© 2017 Stellular Scribe

The Almsgiver

Infections are all adoring
to the malleable flesh of unwilling deities.
In the way that almsgivers subscribe the psalms
of their love in the prayers and curling smoke of incense,
so too does the eagerness of disease worship — rather, strive after
the parentage of the body. It is devotion to a god who does not
love back, whose bloodstream shuns the bread and wine, all
bones and cells and atomic fluid burning with resistance.
Such that illness dares to honor the heart and lungs,
one being is polytheism.

© 2017 Stellular Scribe

the nighttime things

to put it plainly, the maroon of dusk suffered
when you flicked on the light of your bedside lamp.
the nighttime things, all shadow and warmth,
cowered at the violent glare cutting from your upstairs window.
backs bristling, their meddling, medallion eyes
burst forth from the place of uncertainty and you shrieked.
it was childish, you knew, and you swallowed the poisoned air.
a twilight-spotted doe crushed the artificial light underfoot
as she fled the scene. don’t go. your voice was rusted copper.
you felt all apparent, like an untrimmed peacock in Pucci’s Firenze,
and you hated the swirling dust and must that framed you in the lamplight.
the light went off. the maroon settled. you stood still and listened for the night.

© 2017 Stellular Scribe

Cage-Free

before you cracked her,
everything was imaginary.

among sisters, she was a dozen
strong. one of a dozen, cunning
grenades, cage-free
and cagey,
painted in porcelain
camouflage.

you could crush her,
and who knows what might have spilled out.

she was the stuff of bonemeal
if bones masqueraded
as white sidewalk chalk,
unwrapped, unused,
laying claim to
the line never drawn.

so then you cracked her,
and everything that was concealed
emptied out at once.

among shrapnel, she was
a plaster cast, hugging
in desperation to the negative space:
a non-portrait of
unfertilized yolk and runny
meringue,
an unlikeness.

you thought she would be
explosive.
you imagined your fingers the fuse,
and that she would erupt
outwards.

but she was the stuff of bonemeal,
and she collapsed quietly.
she took in with her the
weight of keratin and
vacuuming air and
unconscionable
sunlight.

and she showed you,
once you’d exhausted
her ammunition,
that she was all
concavity.

© 2017 Stellular Scribe

Thawed To Be

In lacking, the ice takes on fluency, despite
the humiliation, the nudity — making
a puddle of her faculties. In this, she drips.
Not to say for misery. She knows her being
relies on these: a patch of sun, a turn in breeze,
an adjustment of but two degrees. How can she
take it personally? But still, each piece of her
that the climate kills becomes the stream that trickles
downhill, and suddenly she is all less and more.
Less to touch. More to ignore, as her body breaks
and she rushes free, briefly singular, and then
in ripples, indistinguishable. Thawed to be.

© 2017 Stellular Scribe