Tag Archives: freedom the light holds


My heart is not a place for cowards.

j'prefere arrêter de vivre mtn plutôt que voir ma vie défiler sans une once de bonheur

—d. antoinette foy—


I am all this… and more.

a lesson in sugarglass…

Here, I am the only kind of holy,
and there is no room
for nonbelievers.

—Ashe Vernon—



In fact, the stars orbiting that irresistible moon
Secret away their own luminous forms
Whenever she shines without restraint
Upon the world entire.

— Sappho —

there is a crack in everything…

that’s how the light gets in.

the best preparation…

You don’t need to be inspired to write a poem.
You need to reach down and touch the thing
that’s boiling inside of you
and make it somehow useful.

— Audre Lorde —

good bones…

Life is short, though I keep this from my children.
Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine
in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,
a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways
I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least
fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative
estimate, though I keep this from my children.
For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.
For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,
sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world
is at least half terrible, and for every kind
stranger, there is one who would break you,
though I keep this from my children. I am trying
to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,
walking you through a real shithole, chirps on
about good bones: This place could be beautiful,
right? You could make this place beautiful.

— Maggie Smith —

my swirling wants…

I practice the art of not being chosen in all the ways that happens.
It follows me as a drumbeat set in rhythm to each step,
lightly tapping against my ribs.
I sing in counter melody;
the clouds keep forgetting the chorus.

Everything has become simple.
The perfection of light reflects deep and true.
I close my eyes against the shade and finally see;
memory, a key to a series of finicky handles.

I have seen Beautiful.
(Your pulse is proof.)
I have inhaled Almost-Promise.
I have screamed secrets to the moon:
Besides the wind,
I want only your hands sliding along the smoothest of my inner thigh,
a delicate slip and slide beneath my flitting skirt.

Sometimes our prayers sound exactly like chipping teeth.

Lovers prove false when
re-made in the image of (small) lifetimes built
upon pyres fueled: guilt, fear… shame, and more.
(I think I have a list somewhere around here.)
There is no coming quite like the certainty of going
and staying.
But I am not waiting;
I set down that map long ago,
even before you walked in and out the door.

The unknown:
may it be more than enough,
the very essence of our breath,
the very best yet.


in this freedom, bold…

in this freedom, bold

All of a sudden, I miss your mouth.





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