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Literature
on not knowing.
this road was ten miles long.
i traveled barefoot.
Literature
Domestic
gnashing teeth and wild horse eyes
quiver skin in the morning
the nettles sting my spine.
where is my open field,
the tongues of trumpet swans,
my dew covered courtyard
with the willow tree?
Literature
and we found...
we love like we sin, terrified and breathless.
we are tea-at-midnight girls, naming constellations
that don't exist after lost tourists we meet on the
street, reminding our freckle covered shoulders
that even beautiful things can be made ordinary.
we are broken fingers and half-closed eyelids and a
penchant for mischief. we are ribbon skin and frantic
desires and incandescent hope. we are a voice spilling
secrets to falling leaves diving after their arachnid brothers,
mimicking the millions before us who were
judged unfairly, unjustly but all too correctly.
we whisper promises to dandelions because they do not
know how to hold gru
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Comments5
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This poem has a very anxious feel about it.