The Bone Yard

I fold my dirty body next to the sun as it falls to sleep across a boneyard.

Our Daughters sleep in there, clinging on to life and on to death.
They strip down to breast and bone for swine,
gnawing on their own skeletons for some Great Man to tame them.

They play in ash playgrounds, burnt down by thieving snakes of virginity.
Our hands can do nothing.
Our Book does nothing.

Our Sons are bound, shackled by veins to elusion.
They strain, barefoot in the desert where demons build their muscles on doubt and hesitation.
Fear is a great interruption to the infant shadows that remain young nuisances
until trepidation grips its claws around their hollow shoulders and carry them away.

And, as the boneyard grows next to me. I lay, with burnt wings, in a chill that never dies.

Shipwrecked

When it is day, I do not recognize
this land. We live on
moonlit love and hard water
soaked in oak barrels.

When sunlight takes over
this land, I do not recognize
his hands that
lay me to rest with Strigiformes
and kiss my skin to death

his voice blurs my vision
when it is day, he is
not him
he is a reflection of a
fermented sea I drown in

every night,
when I swim away from this
foreign land I live on.

Berries and Bullets

The night is thick with hot lead,
bullet dust. His empty pockets
strangle his hands that once were full
with pride.

Beer drips from his words, he buries his head six-feet deep in my lap. Catching the scent of love, he moves faster than tomorrow.

I laid out my arms,
and across the world to make it,
but his poison comes with the smallest gesture,

his lips against my back, a
hot cyanide whisper as he rises,
“I’m sorry.”

He throws on his shadow like an old jacket, hands back in his pockets.
5 a.m. I’m alone.
Face down in a puddle of his poison, I drown.

Tomorrow will catch up with me,
I’ll eat the sun for breakfast.
The earth will grow wild berries
and he will come to find me,

on a Hot Sunday,
melting lead
back into bullets,

he’ll spread my arms by my wrists, untangle my naked fists, furious at his abandon…

but, for him, I will lay across the world to make it,

Looking For Bloggers To Review My Chapbook

I am currently seeking bloggers to write a review of my small collection of poetry, Some Things Ache In The Dark, that’s just been released through Writing Knights Press.

If you are interested, please email me at: maggiemaeijustsaythis@gmail.com with a link to your blog!

Thanks everyone ❤

XOXOXO

~MM

Deprecating Tongues

wicked strikes
on
language
reaching
over seas
across
time difference
plaguing
mental disease
on
populations, tribes,
nationalities

breathe in polluted
words
breathe out
anxious
injurious
leftovers

bipolar whispers
grumbling fault finders
sniveling rascals
serial hope killers
poisoning
airways
stench upon
putrid vocabulary stench

virtually
grasping hands around
necks
and squeezing spirits
away.