Hope

After the devil walked out,
I set the house on fire.
A cleansing.
I went North to see the See-er.
She agreed with me.
We talked about herbs and tea
and the guns of history.

My dad stepped in as if he was
there all along. I tried not to,
but the Tulips were in full bloom.
The honey bees called me
by a given name.
I am on separation from myself,

and as ghosts came and went,
I left my silhouette behind.
I joined a rainy city for a brick
talk, but we spoke nothing.

The See-er followed me with a snap.
I jumped back to her possibility.
She meant to cut it at the stem
but I got more than usual,
and the Tulips changed color, over and over.
And during the middle of all Of this,
I found what she grew.
Hope.

A Secret

“There is a dream outside. 
I am dark and imagined and 
I can’t wake up….”

I have forgotten how I write.
My voice is with the calendar,
in the cemetery,
dusting off a bottle. The sun has moved
in on this town,
drying up oranges,
turning water to dust.

Today, I am a reflection.
A left over.

The wind is locked.
My phone is dead.
People have stopped watching.
I am underground,
away from cancer and traffic.

“…and the dream is inside, too.”

Light is nothing, not even artificial.
The birds are an alarm;
God’s warning.
If someone could crush my hand with
a hammer, I could stop all this.

The world is stretching.

I want my voice back.

I Hope This Is My Face When I Die

I hope this is my face when I die.

Like the other girls’
before they shut their eyes.

Sitting on the porcelain floor,
cold water pouring
over my cold blue body.

It is here,
but my eyes say otherwise.

They say that

I am sitting on top of a casket,
black masked,
tipped back, gin in hand,

sitting on top of love’s old ashes.
Sit next to me,
sit with me here,
a swig for you and more for fear.

Drink with me,
next to me here.

I laugh under black hair balls,
teasing your philosophy,
you make me giggle,

we jump off this old casket and
run, free through the wild,
free through the riddle,

through the bees,
and temptation, and value!

We run away from mascara
smears in water,

away from wrinkled finger prints
and bothered heels,
away from this face,

this face that I hope is mine when I die,
smeared with you,
in a forest,
on a casket,
running free, through the bees,
away from life.