She removed his shirt and pushed him into the moonlight. He became all silvery skin. And so she painted him—deep black covered portions of his arms, his hands, his face, until finally she moved him out of the moonlight. He disappeared, except for a hand here, a limb there, and also his eyes, the pale… Read More When He Asked Her to Turn Him into a Poem
There was a morning when she opened herself to horses— it was a sort of release, the wind and soft petals under her toes. She waited out in the field, their bodies lingering off on the horizon. They looked black against the sun, manes twisting, all muscle. She imagined their eyes, like dew and something… Read More Nights that Dreamed Her Open
It was late, and the sky had long past burst and cleared into stars when it ran from the trees, like a mass, illuminated into white and fur in the headlights. Its eyes were like two pearls. I watched as it tumbled away into the darkness, that broken filament, and I waited until they came… Read More All Memory
As I move through this evening, I am reminded of you. During the winter which beat my skin raw, we tried to be someone older. We attempted to speak like birds, all sound in the early morning glow, the pink dew and raw strawberries. You became all hands, you like a converging horizon, and I… Read More Near the End of It
And the hands begin floating out in the open— all fingers like predisposed tiger lilies. * In the end, there is water hung over the rafters like long sticks, like limbs, * and there are birds lining the doorway. You sleep in your bed, unaware of the predetermined eyes of the young— then, you dream… Read More It Ends With Three.