Vine and Sand

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

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Your Body Brought the Sea

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

Godself

I summoned my godself last night.
She was of adventitious frame,
gilded in hippocampi,
the sororal All of
Hermetic name.

Inside, rolled upon herself — she and I were intertwined.
Bedfellows, in one body.
She said, “Remember that time?”

I knew myself awake in her.
She pressed our hand into the sheet to prove a
thought we never had. “It’s real, now,”
she concealed. “Can your archangels do that?”

© 2017 Stellular Scribe

Headlines

I was thinking about touching the light
that touched the sidewalk
that touched the squinting faces
of Abrahamic patriarchs, light
that now fell upon half-lidded
undergraduates in a caffeinated daze
on a mazy day in the simplest place
in the world, an altar in a valley
in a library.

I was thinking about how far away
I was from the headlines yet
the hearsay was here, only I wasn’t there —
not with the “dozens of snakes dumped in
an Arkansas Walmart parking lot,”
not where they decreed that
“saturated fat was not the devil,”
not when “the world’s last male
northern white rhino joined Tinder
to find a mate.”

I was thinking about how in leaving
this sanctum of damaged denim and
unwoven eye contact I would be forced
up into the light, into the beam that
encapsulated the paradisiacal serpent
and Esau in his gluttonous rage
and The Rhinoceros of Versailles
as he paced his marble menagerie.

I was thinking,
but the light made
hazy prophets
of the newsworthy,
and here I was walking
in low LED, looking down
upon the ticker line.

© 2017 Stellular Scribe

Cage-Free II

plucked from down of
giantess, marked by
viral fingerprint

as an unintended
nucleus of crumpled avian stock,
soon set to Styrofoam

sitting among a dozen
sound, a dozen round
and weighty, waiting

in all entirety, until
forced to collapse quietly,
taking in the break of keratin

and vacuuming air and
unconscionable
sunlight, and then

trailing the totality,
slavering as what was certain
looses at the seams

left hugging
in desperation
to the negative space:

a plaster cast, a non-portrait
of unfertilized yolk and runny
meringue, an unlikeness

holding against the light,
all membrane
and concavity

the kidnapped afterbirth
of the cage-free,
stinging the thief’s cast-iron

© 2017 Stellular Scribe

What I Do Not Know

bees rumble, and maybe they speak
in tongues to one another,
but despite the conversation,
they fly

days cycle, and maybe if not for
refracting light, all time would be
illegitimate, and waking in
dark would suffice

sleep ponders, and maybe it is a form
of dying, these lucid
systems of equations
that paralyze one’s
bloodstream

mothers wrangle, and maybe the braids
they twist are testaments
to living up to sons, to tightening
porose minds of
feminine truth

© 2017 Stellular Scribe

What I Know

I know that all voice is metal,
cutting blade
until the tongue softens its edge,
and in saying this, I seem to
only know of auditory
things — what else is there?
To see is to allude, in suggestion
I know the colors crawl,
but to speak is to make sense
of veins in rock, of
lustrous ore, not yet formed,
to break the leaf of
indeterminate ingot and
weave gold from its bedlam.
What else is there but crushing
noise, those atoms in their
offended chase,
that we, in a feat of muscle
and stringy vibration,
master?

© 2017 Stellular Scribe