souls remain when bodies decay,

so let me feed mine until she is full.

let her be reminded of sweet sundays,

caramel mornings and spun sugar afternoons

when it doesn’t rain and she’s all alone

vibrations of nature keeping her warm.

the romans began the tradition of breaking things: bones, countries.

a rooster crows at the break of dawn,

announcing the sun, calling the spirits of the dead.

the hens only crow with the arrival of the egg: birth, creation.

the grain on the icy ground spells out the future

but they pay no mind to the hens' scratchings.

in the beginning, my bones were revered;

they held energy, released energy,

they were molded in the shape of all life.

they laid in the sun, drying, for seven days.

they revealed the seven ways we experience the world

seven senses, seven days, seven ways.

with my link to the world without fire broken, i am unable to fly.

i found gold on the edges of trees

embedded in the sidewalks

swirling like pixie dust in the bodies of waves

caught by the sun for a millisecond.

i found it flecked in the eyes of strangers

floating in a beam of windowlight

dripping from a flame

glinting off of a tin roof.

i found gilded goat horns and

pearl dust mixed with mica shimmer

on cheekbones

and noses.

i found gold hidden in old inkpads

embossed on the covers of favorite books

flaked on an old mirror

flashed in a smile.

look there! the shine of a golden curl

immortalized by the silver screen.

i.

moonlight whispers against your collarbone, all but silent silk sticking to milky-white skin / you feel it, rather than see it / you do not remember how you arrived here. nevertheless, it does not matter: the drumming of waves beyond your ears and between your lips will act as your guide.

your breath catches in your throat, and you almost laugh because / you realize / like breath, what is essential for life is both abundant and precious, until it’s neither. will you risk that to plunge under waves of uncertainty for a glimpse of omniscience?

your eyes flutter under closed lids. / what is hidden hides for a reason / and perhaps this choir of waves crescendoing below deserves privacy. perhaps not. you do not know.

you open your eyes

ii.

well-worn waves dine on the stars with jagged teeth. you think you see something under the scraps of scattered reflection adorning the surface, but perhaps it’s all / abyss /

neptune calls to you with saltwater knives. licking your toes. stinging your knees / red / raw / wrapping frostbitten shadows round your waist. barnacles nip at the soles of your feet like impatient hounds.

you create ripples in the water as you wade further. you think: maybe the ocean is communicating through cryptic metaphors. the water is silent. you receive no answer tonight.

you hold your breath

iii.

there is this unspeakable fear that pulls on your wrists like rusty chains, pulls on your neck like slowly-numbing fingers, / yet / you’ve been taught not to let your knees buckle under the crippling weight of a shivering midnight. and so /

you drop your robe. slithering down your shoulders, fluttering lifeless behind you, carried away by conspiratorial waves. exposing you to a midnight jury, luminescent skin rubbed / red / raw / by icy water. dawn is far from the horizon, so you hope this inky wetness below, this cavern of nothingness, will be your guardian.

you dive

it’s a trying time, a loss of mind. they say the art of dying is a misled affair, not creative nor astounding but certainly abundant in impact. as she brushes her hair back, her fingers fumble for the tie. they shake with the uncertain tremor of someone who misses home. her heart has drifted off, floating foolishly in the balance.

stifling silence, tell me to breathe. a modest moon hangs over my head but can hardly contain her excitement. in the shallow lakes of white light i sit and wish on busy stars - if i am put on hold i understand, for they have urgent calls to answer. in a naive stroke of genuine hope, i wonder if the gates open tomorrow.

he rushes in, exhausted by this existence but revitalized by your call. shaky inhales and shakier hands serve you a second chance as the sun sets in shades of swirling red. you laugh for the first time in months.

the funny thing about adolescence is that we never really grow out of it; our skin gets older, our minds become frayed on the edges, but that pure desperation to see the world never ceases, always flows and shows itself in the tryingest of times.

on orchard street the people know

her name, the time, and how to sew;

she always cooked and never cleaned,

except her kitchen truly gleamed,

each burnished pot seemed to glow.

in the garden she placed plants to grow-

she sang to them and they moved, slow.

each year on sick day she was redeemed,

on orchard street.

they swear she was born long ago,

that she whispers spells into her dough.

each night she flew, or so they dreamed,

her long black hair behind her streamed,

and during winter, she keeps a crow-

on orchard street.

your blood is not lost on me,

this pearly connection a dreaded thought.

in the shallows of your soul i wait,

pained by unheaviness

crushed by your gravity

indebted to the spaces between breaths.

emptiness and willingness stem of similar roots,

both making excellent reasons to leave.

everything of lilac hue surrounds me;

under the tapestry of ink spills and bright spots

i accept what isn’t mine.

don’t get attached, don’t launch attacks.

make for a meaningless life in which

a white flag is raised

and the predators are polite.

empty, except for soil.

it fills me up every spring,

rich redbrown california soil

with sunshine folded in. when it

rains i sit placidly and let the water

soak me, puddling in my head and sifting

down until i am damp all the way through. i lie

on the ground and wait for the sun every morning

and move only in the wind. i am dotted with multicolored

flowers from the plant nursery, their little cubes of soil and root gently

massaged and repotted. i feel the scrape of her pink spade against my brain.

i am filled with the plants from my grandmother's repurposed wheelbarrow, her

handpainted pots in all shapes and sizes. an acorn falls by chance and lands gently on

my chest. it is nurtured by my life and splits down the middle, soft and greenish red. a

root shoots into my heart, a sprout into the sky. i am bound to the clouds by it's singular

spiky leaf, to the earth by it's straightened root. i can move no longer. i can only watch

the clouds lumber by, gentle giants, the stars migrating at night with the turns of

the earth. i feel raindrops on my tongue. i feel my skin peel and crack from

the sun. i feel the butterfly on my palm. i do not sink, rather i feel the

earth rise up and envelop me in nutrient-rich dirt, red, brown,

green. i feel my throat buried and my eyes see only

blue. i fall asleep, until next spring.

I. THE SCENE

in the name of callous grace,

my hardened hands joined in prayer,

the water ebbs and flows in tides.

windy mornings paint the sky,

neon brushstrokes on a rough draft sunrise,

as the trees sing their hymns - push and pull.

II. THE SONG

i was born to inhabit this body:

my silhouette the product of rooted muscles, careful grooming.

i was made for long looks, yearning gazes,

for intense inspection but never complete satisfaction-

i was born to grow,

to watch everything i have ever loved

change and leave and go.

III. THE SIGNS

in deep tangles of seaweed and backwoods rope

i cry to the presence in the sky and beg,

please give me a sign.

the morning is quiet, the air ricochets with cliches

and i figure i’m a moon but never this moon,

i’m a star but not one from this point of view.

i matter but not in terms of atoms or quarks,

i’m present as the package of promise at my door.