Stones

Stone clouds tell her story.

Today was dry before grey stomped
over head.

I wish I was her. She reminds me

how to cry like my pupils are perfect moons,
ten thousand drops on the prick
of every sharp edge .

She shapes me,
she wraps me in her moisture
when I am filth, then leaves.

I forget. I fly around memory
and time like
it still exists,

like one floor leads to
the next floor,

like today isn’t meant to say anything,
I hope

for silence underwater,
my big head under
water
breathing out every last danger

until my old body is
roaring grey stone,
floating in over head,
reminding someone to fly around
memories
and time
like they still exist.

The Only Hands I Want To Know

hold on, for dear
life, hold on,

holds on, tight
grip, white knuckles,
ripping my flimsy body
from the sea.

We are ballet together.
Strict, and flexible.
The tragedy of the sea
drips from my fingertips;
he twirls death out of me.

For years, I drifted on dead logs,
raging against a hateful water,
dipping my hands in to remember

the violent debris, floating barely
above surface.
He disagrees.

He only saw a body dance perfectly
ill-tempered, diving into
the boiling veins of the world.
His hands reached in,
not to pull me from death,
not to release me from dangerous
waves that swallowed me in
then spit me back out,
but to dance
a perfect dance
on dry desert land.

The Sky Is Dead

The sky is dead.
A muddy sun aches in memory; an
unconscious fire, leaping
into dark waters.

Loneliness fades in deep congested
pressure, a million sea
tragedies
couldn’t lift her waste
from submergence.

Salty seaweed slowly crept down her throat,
entangling itself in soft
asphyxiation. Her beautiful body swelled
with the sea,
tides turned and turned over
purple lips in a green dress,
spitting her raw
meat shell
out into silver moon beams.

The wind stalled after striking
her cold cheek. Shiftless.
Idle in a sodden night,
offering nothing more for
life
to feed on.

So, life takes her flesh,
sacrifices her meat to
micro bacteria,
burning her bones into the
sand;

a fossil of destitution.

 

Self-Reproach

She lived in a junk ocean
swimming
in the dark waters
of nostalgia

She gave birth to four babies
two in the spring
two in the summer
She tied
all four of them to Her gills

they were heavy
they pulled and tugged
on Her
making Her instinctual efforts
tedious

She never let a tide change
without
reminding
the
four of their weight
of Her struggle

still
She carried them
dragged them through
Her muck
strung them along
deep
in the dark
junk ocean

the tides changed
over and over

eventually
the four
grew gills of their own
weight
swimming muscles
and She was forced to untie them
still
reminding them of their weight
of Her struggles

the four stayed near
Her
eager to help
to relieve Her
of  the strain
they had caused

but no service
could mend the damage
done to Her
strained
tired
gills

the four
swam around the
shameful waters
drowning in moral
conditions
as the weight She
had been burdened with

slowly
slowly
grew in the gross waters
latching on
to the strong
untouched
gills
of the four

weighing them
down
down
down
deeper
into the dark
junk ocean
where
they surrendered in Her
waste