Your hook of intimacy in me. I cannot look at your hands. I am blinded.
I’m watching the Mango tree next door quiver and wait for the storm, white sheets on the line wave violently to black clouds.
Anaïs Nin (via shitgaze)
I want to stop feeling like this - I think I am anaemic.
Every dark part of you
use it to paint my naked skin black too,
every bruise the sweetest promise.
It’s a golden prison. The light on my hair
cries for memory, for anything
to weigh it down. All this time
I’ve been hanging, the secret tides
of my body staying high. I remember
I am childless. I would have given it
a hunter’s name, Orion, because that’s where
we end, up here, in these wisps.
We didn’t do right by the Earth.
It kept giving us pictures, big frantic snow,
midnight fires in the willows.
We should have walked somewhere like Jesus,
sowing equilibrium, slow to consume.
We should have fought to know him,
to trap and spawn his grace.
But maybe we’d already met, and he saw,
and this is the scar of that encounter.
When I could not get with child
I swallowed the egg of the meadowlark
who eats the daylight,
the mother of untangled grasses.
A long drop, the egg bore its root
in my foot, it stitched me
together with grain.
I am patient now; I am not damaged by waiting.
Languid as a coming rain, stalks
inch alongside my veins to the tips
of my fingers.
A grassland has thirst,
so does a fire,
a cup, noon,
the color of dough,
so while I sleep the moon creeps
between my poised teeth
to flood me with moonwater.
When I speak, the scent
of lengthening wheat overwhelms me.
Shoots rise straight up
and don’t droop as tears,
don’t fail like questions;
they get on with growing.
I hold a handkerchief
over my mouth to veil the clover
and bees that tickle my throat,
but the angel
who’s due at my tent
won’t catch me laughing.
A kiss would do it.
One sprinkle of milkwhite salt
and I’ll break like bread at your table.
(via Good Reads)