Holding Myself Captive
Nothing is holding the death
of our passion at bay in this fog
except the bounce of your laughter.
I kept thinking prayers would carry us home
but I got turned around and forgot
to put down my shield
and unfurl my fist from my heart.
to clinging together
when our hearts
in the middle
I Have Faith in Us
This time around
I won’t look for answers
in the dust and damp ash—
sometimes ideas are frail flowers.
After reading Corinthians
and begging for love,
you still don’t believe
there’s something waiting
But I do.
Last of the Wild (A Tanka)
The winter wolves wait.
Hoping for the sleeping rain
without fear or blame.
From Genesis to today
disappearing like frail ghosts.
The Salt Lick
When the time comes, he will probably
sprinkle just enough pity and proverb
upon our wounds to heal the breathing
rift we choked with myth and fatal exposés.
The antidote for allegory is not truth
but more allegory.
This is what he does—with flourish.
One good deed deserves another
and so we gather around the salt
lick for another night of fable,
poetry, and ballad to heal our souls.
Once I was a daughter
with infinite innocent sleep
playing dress-up and walking on air
until the day I woke up.
Then I did what every poet did—
composed untamed rhyme
from prayer to prayer
like a solitaire ceremony,
rewriting my memory
without knowing why.