black river child
When I was 8, I walked to the black river
because I thought
the forest was whistling.
It sounded like chimes of sunlight.
As I climbed through the brush
every branch left scratches.
There was a train headed south
as I reached the river. No one even noticed
I was missing, as water melodies erased
my footsteps in the dirt.
There’s a shadowy secret; I’ll command to you now:
Clouds parted like the wings of a fly:
dip your daisy-toes in, the river hummed.
This desire was beautiful & ugly
at the same time.
But the black river was a liar,
so I left girl-body to become woman.
I’m telling you this now
because the sot of the earth wasn’t my fault.
The rot in the body was the moss
& algae of parasitic, little girl fear:
I left my body a while ago. The vines entwined her here.
moon air & terrain sequence
trees forget our faces &
unknowingly, guide blue egg
to its genesis; the darkness
settles & holds,
tugs fireflies off moonlight
until what surrounds
is bolt: is woman gone wild;
so we gather
our bodies & hungry bones:
we sleep with dirty animals
I take pebbles & fill the hole;
here, take a dewy sun
for your underworld telescope—
the wolf will bite back & arrow
through spring; take this broken
daisy-death for your particular
numbness; stop thrashing
your sweet life at my feet
before shadows I thundered
in a factory of wings,
foaming fire, a real anxiety
galaxy; you were stones
holding down my parachute, so
I wished for sea clusters, to be
rainbow, to be jellyfish
wedged in the spaces of your ribs.
(I am bound to blink & shine inside
the moon) as he removes my shell
& my meat
the stone pieces melt
purple, over rocks
of stardust; what is the moon but
I envy I envy I envy
the language of flowers
for Rocco Archer
I believe in the language of flowers:
(my baby boy originated within the rain)
at my Yiayia’s house, fortressed by dahlias,
roses, and bees, a little girl played.
I want to be a little girl again
and remember how I originated, too.
I believe in the language of dreams:
(my baby boy originated within the clouds)
were there any flowers on earth before
there were any children in mothers?
The garden always whispered
like bees’ wings sinking inside.
I believe in the language of blood:
(my baby boy originated within me)