I was born a matchhead and baptized a sinner
Sunday sermons taught fear of flames, no mention that cold burns just the same...
No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story. Celebrating Diversity Since 2015
I was born a matchhead and baptized a sinner
Sunday sermons taught fear of flames, no mention that cold burns just the same...
Why I Wouldn’t Fall in Love Again
until you made me remember why I never got another cat or want to know again that wrung-out loss;
I. at issue is the glass between us. opaque language, unhoneyed eyes, ears cottoned in steam. now to stop the words, to prevent a crash, to make us admit we were ever simpler: my fingers on the knot of a tie your breath untying the mirror.
Few noticed Icarus that day, Heard from high clear air long unlucky cries, Saw with hard squinting, disbelieving eyes One splash after a ballet of disarray...
Your grey eyes cut around the room, following light as if movement or prey, dashing in and under growth, gathering places otherwise unseen into your periphery.
We need a foreign country to set us free, Even one so poor, where no one cares.