Tuesday, April 26, 2016

3 pieces of dust...

...meant to be caught and made into mud:


Creeping phlox. The whole yard had succumbed to them, drought or no.  Purple haze marred the tight yellowing scrap of lawn on the eastern corner, like the birthmark that slipped up my neck and gripped the edges of my jawline. Mama liked em, the phlox, but mama's opinions weren't to be trusted.  She told me I was beautiful, once.


The whole entire grass field was a wide, low pricker bush. It made me feel mean and nasty just to look at it. I sat on the rock fence letting my hat make a perfect-circle shade over my barefeet, thinking hard on getting boots or roughin' it. I wished I'd known it didn't matter. I wished I'd just gone on ahead without those boots. I wished I'd known a lot of things the summer that daddy ran away and Judah came in the rain.


The astro-turf dock that swayed like a mother in the best of weather was the first memory that came to her mind in that moment. That, and the never ending ricochet down the canyon. The ripples of disaster kept her in a state of pre-awareness. The dock slapping and sucking on the water's surface harmonized darkly with the ping-chuck of the gunshot. When the memory began to fade, she squinched her eyes tightly, "Don't go away. Don't go away. Wait..." Gone. Gone and shelved.

Monday, April 18, 2016

I didn't ask you

You could never hear the green edge reaching,

its change is in slivers
and lines of white, impenetrable

don't pretend that the fact you have a soul
makes you privy

I smile at your clamber
but not long,
I just don't care

my skin is stretched,
tattooed vein-deep
with dirt and ash

curled, cocooned

your words don't change me
you say proper things
you cannot live here

if you knew fragility
I'd ask your thoughts
but you don't

so i won't

Wednesday, April 06, 2016


Would that I could shapeshift.
I'd sprout little horns and run away into the wood.
I'd perceive indentations under trees and curl there;
away from danger I'd chew at rich grasses
no further than neck's length.
One day the sun would insinuate itself
through my ceiling,
glinting on one brown eye.
It would make me cry and the teeth would see my tear.
It would see my tear in an unholy refraction of light
as though the heavens itself could not abide my hiding any longer