𝓐 𝓦𝓻𝓲𝓽𝓮𝓻 𝓘𝓷 𝓜𝓸𝓷𝓽𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓵

Sleep Thief

When you sleep
you keep
your secrets
each discrete.
Your breath
its depth
confounds unspoken

self.

I Will Not Be Rescued

Can you rescue me
from demented outbursts?

My fragile lexicon
is not getting better; it's getting
worse, so much worse.
I do not fully
understand the aesthetic
of the obsessed. I am not yet dead
and yet and yet, I am ready
for the transition: be it brutal, be it gentle.
I conjure a mop ( a map)
that will cleanse me, deface me,
rescue me, oh finally, ah, kindly
from the curse
of continuity.

Saviouress

If Oskar schindler could save
one thousand Jews,
surely I can save you.

Swan Girl

Your Boleyn neck
stretched until it could withstand
no further torture.
Like an impossibly long-stemmed
tulip struggling in deep shade,
animal-vegetal metaphors
undid you until death
arrived, bloodless, polite
and without a hint of rancour.

Girl in the Green Spring Coat

It had to be
in May when the grass
could never be greener,

not even in gentle June
or lush July
I saw the girl in the green
spring coat.
Only a child model
in that intoxicating zone
between homely and divine
as crisp as celery,
as dangerous as absinthe.
No matter who is posed
besides her, she will never pale
although she is paler than a garden variety ghost
a hidden scheme, a shameful scene, a spurned dream

no one left to derise her.

Unknown Forest

in whose forest
did you get lost?
was it at dawn
or was it at dusk?
Did you nibble on treebark?
Did you repose upon moss?
Were you a gone girl
or an invisible guest?
No matter, no matter,
You were killed by your quest.