secret secret

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Love.

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a tap on the throat twice

here inside a tiny box

the same song plays

wind it up

play the song

here inside a tiny box

not even an ornate one

but one that i happened to find

while cleaning out a closet

lives a song i once sang

while cradling the moon in

one hand

and you in another

but that’s because

i thought you were a wolf

the night

the pearl to

rival the moon

instead of this old

country

song

whispering

from a cardboard

box

prayer hands

i stood in front of the willow tree

it’s massive you know

the trunk alone dominates their yard

truly green too

emerald is the closest comparable

around the corner from my house

the people who live there

have made a mockery of it

shaped it into a sort of

flat top haircut

the kind brothers who are

a little sweet

are made to get

in hopes that cutting off curls

into spiny little soldiers

might possibly

stop nighttime eyeliner

i know it’s not neighborly

to hate

but when i thought about

showing you this

as a way to explain

how a willow tree

saved my life once

well

i get so mad

i could spit

my lover is dubious of it

every time i see bull thistle

i think of you

how you wore your hair wild

while i wondered

which shoe you kept your drugs in

the you that said on your tombstone

it would scream

i don’t want to hurt you

but i will

as i admire the dense and prickly stalks

the blazing pink heads

of the bull thistle

i smile about the you who

took a blood oath

under a willow tree

in one hot texas

hour

a party a day

one winter you bought me

fingerless gloves

at a place i would never

be able to afford

a ridiculous price

for such a small

swatch of

black

and thick lace

two months later

you would break my

heart

leave me thinking of how

while you fed me like a

baby bird

i counted the creases

one, two, three, four

in your expensive and well

worn

boots

counted the lines

around your eyes

one two three

when you smiled

wrote iambic pentameter

to impress you

promised everything

inside that poem

ten years later

i can’t pretend i am not

sentimental

because this was the first year

it was cold enough to make me hunt

try as i might

i could only find one of your

ratty

fingerless

gloves

where the other half lives

so does our best and worst

winter

some cages some days

here is the way

this invisible bird sings

all alone

long cool sips

of honeysuckle

silvery moonrise

over the treetops

golden sunbathing

with eyes closed

no mate

no fear

wings and wind

but always this tree

always this song

always this girl

standing still in the dark

all alone

singing back

no mate

no fear

fingers and wind

but this life

this invisible friend

who knows her

best

pick it up and throw it down

here is the thing

about being average

you can be a mollusk

your feminine oyster mysteries

around you

shell parted slightly

suggesting a kiss

if you are very lucky

in your lifetime at the bottom

holding up a great body of water

one of those times you

dare to part your

seductive shells

a gift of a

splinter

will get lodged

inside of you

it will give you a start

at first

who can blame you

but like all hard

working class

oysters

you will carry it with you

over time the splinter

will be smoothed by

your keening

your maybe lovely

maybe not

singing

your nighttime stories

your dreams of

warm waters

bringing you babies

if you are average

all of the ocean floor

looks magical

every bubbling rush

from schools of fish

is a ballet

every whale song

is a perfect aria

even plankton

are precious

to an average oyster

laying gently

amongst all oysters

who someday

discovers a pearl

under her

genius

heart

you feeling brave

i didn’t know the bees had made

home in my belly

even though i swallowed

them in secret

those years when love

was scarce enough

to make a person desperate

no i went on living

thinking the faint hum

that would come out into

cold air in electric gasps

was nothing

probably imagined

kind of crazy person

thoughts

but today i coughed up

a dark sticky chunk

of our honeycomb memories

fall in the rainiest season yet

the popping sound of tires

the surprise quiet in my heart

proof that the bees

never stopped working

to preserve us in what might

amount to a handful

of honey

fire in the fields

there isn’t a picture of us
late summer sweat
warm wood planks and
naked feet
of the way your thick fingers
looked
pulling in the fishing lines
from your
sleek
black
snake
of a boat
or of the way
your swagger made two shadows
one feminine
one masculine
both cracked in half once again
(and then again)
there is no physical evidence
that i once stole away on your vessel
hid myself inside a locket
under your sailor ropes
yet here you are
barnacled to
my heart
as real as
the saltwater
you once whistled
into a tornado

 

 

from there to there

i hate the word daddy
long buried landmines
tip toe feet in the dark
i love the word daddy
christmas tree gasps
the strongest arms
holding the word
trust
i hate the word daddy
an alleyway
too many midnights
a couch in the shape of
a tanker
lost at sea
i love the word daddy
torn nets for fish
freeing seal thighs
into the wild
of a better
girl

in your first swing it hit

there is a chewing 

on the ends of my days

a kind of small change

that cannot be known

unless you are always looking

meticulously 

for bite marks

(as it always has been)

on the dining table are faded letters

tied up with a bow

on the front walkway are apologies

jagged little hungry things 

in the pomelo tree i will hide my shadow

there it will sleeps until summer

too high for the hunger

the writer

the ferine fox