At the annex of marble throat and jaw
a chisel devours its quarry,
where mute voices swell
against deaf stone
and the unseen gem
beats a cold tone,
there in the sculptor’s purgatory.
© 2019 Stellular Scribe
At the annex of marble throat and jaw
a chisel devours its quarry,
where mute voices swell
against deaf stone
and the unseen gem
beats a cold tone,
there in the sculptor’s purgatory.
© 2019 Stellular Scribe
the ragged bone
presses beneath damask skin
and a seam gasps
for the body
to become
a city of spires:
rib-cage and wrist
and ripped fabric
© 2019 Stellular Scribe
she imagined death as a mother at a hearth
fava beans and fennel
oregano and almond-ground pasta
set to simmer in the three-legged pot
the steam lifted her
kissed her
savory firelight bathed her
a peppered voice anointed her
she imagined death as a mother at a hearth
and such sweet regard ruined her
© 2019 Stellular Scribe
linger under the citrus sky
and listen to the gull who weeps
through the crevice of the cliff-face
see the streets cast in oil-light
and smell the fresh paint
slick on fishing boats
look into the slumbering face of the horizon
and hear the strains of a familiar song
as it circles the breeze
a distant drum-beat beckons
© 2019 Stellular Scribe
He holds the arms of the fever,
the wrath of the water,
and their bodies are enlarged with dreams.
They are the bodies of crushed marble,
gold, amber bone extraction,
the raw materials behind the Hereafter,
when the Nile remained in the luster of Lebanon.
A gem of her old light
softens the tongue of its severity.
And he, the only poet in the night sky
kisses her collapsed face
to taste tomorrow binding.
© 2019 Stellular Scribe
he shed a line of crystalline notes
each incandescent half-step
more unexpected than the last
a high, winding vine
creeping from an unseen branch
tendrils tendering my neck
taking root within my chest
his melody sweeps into a golden desert
of glass sand and endless thirst
and hot wind slipping in and out of me
I spin on burning soles
to avoid his lashes
I claw at the constricting song
to breathe again
© 2018 Stellular Scribe
Your body brought the sea to my bed,
cloaking me as the rushed arch of a wave,
a tide suspended,
unable to break.
Grabbing onto you is like running
my fingers through the wet of a storm.
Despite the salt and surf,
you are not cold —
quivering with mammalian heat against my chest,
holding with arms of fever
and hurricane infection.
I swim for hours.
I never drown.
© 2018 Stellular Scribe
play not those hymns of salt and terror
for though they smell of poppy
and taste of sweet
their very tone
condemns the player
to water’s ire, the belly of the sea
lend not their false notes, my child
for in their octaves
dead fishwives weep
and curse the waves
that push you deeper
that fill your sails with treachery
© 2017 Stellular Scribe
This lotus smells of yesterday,
of Ithaca it knows no name.
A portside sigh: young lungs long
to breathe sweet lethargy
and rest undone efforts upon the sand.
For them, there is no other way.
North winds, blown them from their way —
a haven set eight suns past yesterday.
Their maternal ship berths abalone sand,
but for the land, they slave to name.
Aloe bud of Sicily? Scheria of draped ivy? Lethargy,
in silken draw, keeps their attentions from lasting long.
There, stillwater: strange stalks bend, long
the lotus flower lends her scent. She blossoms the way
of islander pride, fleshing their frames with lethargy
and laying their bodies swelled with dreams — as since yesterday,
the strangers have dared to sleep. Wroth Against calls the name
of his first mate to journey beyond bank and sand.
In droves of want, the crew unloads upon the sand,
unsuspecting of the perennial lure and why they long
to inhale an utterance of the flower’s name.
All panting and peeling, islanders stir and lead the way
to the lotus that smells of yesterday.
With warm blood, they pluck her fruit of lethargy.
Upon seaborne tongues melts saccharine lethargy,
thawing the salt from supple bone. They make lovers of the sand.
For such, they sink, unable to recall the storms of yesterday,
for the berry’s burn they languish and crave. As long
as each youth forgoes his way,
each youth forgets his name.
After the first mate, Wroth Against shrieks his name.
“Quick now, shed your lethargy,
for in this land you are less than a cast-a-way.
Conjure Ithaca’s olive vine, her poppy red, her pearly sand!
Get up, you reek of lotus flower. We have not long
before the winds return. We were so foretold yesterday!”
King Perish drags his men aboard, towing with them the rank of yesterday.
A portside sigh: young eyes long
westward over the sea, in memory of that apathetic sand.
© 2017 Stellular Scribe
Embalming marble corpses, chased with earth
and gold, exhuming amber knuckle bones,
upending ores of afterlife, a dearth
of animated moss and stones —
Recall the body, once inscribed by men
as beauty manifest, divine in form.
And now, collapsing jasper wonders when
its effigy would ever be so warm
as living flesh, as dripping tear, as blood
and skin and breath. For calcified, the cast
of Venus, bronzed and cold, deprives of flood
and blush — in this, she knows her chance has passed.
— the spade, it snapped. The bust, in dust, recoiled
her jewel from ancient light: the myrtle spoiled.
© 2017 Stellular Scribe