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Literature Text
one mississippi
trembling rhythm beats
stark upon the fragile pulse
of a riptide, the shaking
bone of a cemetery queen
carved in marble and
frantic oxygen, a body
that is no longer real
two mississippi
you are an altar and i
am a pyre: you grow the
vines, i burn them up and
coil and twist my skin until
i am among the stars, roots
wrapped around the earth
to choke your fucking temple
three mississippi
primal drumbeat of a skin
stitched senseless with
words and drenched in
sky, in ecstasy and hidden
things keep your eyes wide
with the hype i never caught
start a war in your spare time
(and oh
what a goddamn gorgeous
waste
of a crucifixion.)
trembling rhythm beats
stark upon the fragile pulse
of a riptide, the shaking
bone of a cemetery queen
carved in marble and
frantic oxygen, a body
that is no longer real
two mississippi
you are an altar and i
am a pyre: you grow the
vines, i burn them up and
coil and twist my skin until
i am among the stars, roots
wrapped around the earth
to choke your fucking temple
three mississippi
primal drumbeat of a skin
stitched senseless with
words and drenched in
sky, in ecstasy and hidden
things keep your eyes wide
with the hype i never caught
start a war in your spare time
(and oh
what a goddamn gorgeous
waste
of a crucifixion.)
Literature
wondertow
perhaps love is meant to end. love opens one's eyes and mind to hope, validation, presence; meaning should exist before, during, after else one be lost in a sea of throwing-up-hands and mirrors smoked. tears are choked back often, smeared journal entries erode over time to be faint scars; we are libraries of guilt and apprehension stacked past icarus' wonder. once your fangs grow you're in the bite, only right to taste a throat or two before you file them away like wildflowers between pages of a book you will bury in dust. perhaps love is meant to remind us of kindness offered, of striving to be more, of how we know ourselves when we feel blessed, of coughing up beauty like stars aligned with expectations. and then, as a candle at dawn, let go.
Literature
The Weight We Carry
When I say my bag is heavy,
I don’t mean the fifty
pounds of textbooks
I stuff it with, filled
to bursting, then
take the stairs two
at a time to hear
my abdominal muscles scream
and feel my breath flee,
never looking back.
When I say my bag is heavy,
I don’t mean in pounds,
kilograms, ounces or stones—
maybe stones
the kind that Virginia Woolf
lined her pockets with
when she walked
into the Ouse.
When I say my bag is heavy,
I mean that Atlas staggered
under this weight,
and when my therapist asks
“Do you feel strong?”
I feel the crushing
of my collarbone
and answer truthfully,
“No.”
Literature
Home
First inhalations past the threshold, wordless perfume somewhere between dust, sunlight blooming floral in an open mouth, and linen. My grandfather said his first action home after slipping the tired strap of his travel-bag off his shoulders was to kiss the coverlet of his bed, and at eight I couldn't comprehend. Now I understand it is prayer and apology for wanderlust, infidelity to spaces we so often take for granted. I cannot steal his ritual, so mine lingers in breath instead-- I refuse to breathe until I open the door, until I hunger for home, and home becomes my lungs again. I breathe around the word like wine, lips closing around the syllable, a spoonful of shepherd's pie. I am the sommelier of journey's end; it is never the same bouquet twice. Sometimes the rice has gone bad in the fridge, overpowering the ghost of lavender; Sometimes three o'clock warms old candle wax, leaving notes of peony and laughter. I savor all the same. I wonder if the doorframe
Suggested Collections
void makes a poor lover
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Comments15
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Another phenomenal poem. Why are you such an inspiration? <3