Desolate Places
The songs on her albums become
love letters to herself.
She blows white lines down the
highway driving straight into the moon
on a flat desert road that heads toward
the edge of nowhere.
Candle wax streams like tears as her
dreams fly up the chimney.
Dusty rural scene is like a vicarious
melancholy of abandoned farms
and desolate places.
In a pawn shop are ruins where people
leave behind their photographs and
memories of a previous life.
Jesus waits on death row as empty
prayers are found floating in the foam
of breaking water.
When She Emerged
Folded like an origami bird she emerged
from a cocoon of rumpled sheets and hair.
Her words found notes of a song that
gave way to a language that opened doors
to the underworld where she watched the
burning stars and the fixed stare of the moon.
She rearranged the letters in the spelling of
your name and slapped fire on the eyes of
the entrance where night erupted into day.
A potter cast her spell as windows were
broken, glass wept and wheels spun out
of control.
She divorced herself from a thousand
painful memories and dusted her sins
off church pews.
She left the house like a paper doll, her
clothes folded over her and took the
hands off the clock and lived by her
own time.
Where Time Stood Still
The smoke curls, leaves its imprint
on the rafters. Cold air enters with
the bundled up patron who settles
with a pint of Guinness in the
shadowed corner, the brim of his
hat down over his eyes. Across from
him sits a young lass from down
the way turning pages of a library
book long over due, a smudge of
cream from her hot chocolate clings
to the corner of her mouth. A few
of the older men sit huddled over
a game of cards, the ashes of their
pipes glowing pathways against the
fading light. As the clocks keeps a
steady rhythm, circles appear on the
table from the bottom of their wet
glasses, ringed portals to another
place and time. The farmers talk of
their sheep and end of harvest as
the bartender lights kerosene lamps
to keep the darkness at bay. Outside
it is the fog that clutches the ground
and shutters the lane home. Inside
they agree it is as if time stood still
and night has folded its arms around
them, their conversation painting
the walls.
All That Is Wild
Woman of bones, tender of time.
The rasp of a crow scratches
along the back of her throat,
runes speak between her ribs.
She unfurls her wings against
the night sky and fornicates with
all that is wild.
I Will
Today, more than ever
I will burn prim and proper.
I will drink root beer fizzies with dangerous women,
eat ice cream right out of the container
and guzzle red wine straight from the bottle
until I can call my hangover “the grapes of wrath”.
I will hoard buttons and
red lipstick and make myself a crown of
glimmering fish scales, feathers and moss.
I will run down hallways and set off fire alarms
and dye my hair the color of rubies.
I will curse like I own the words,
embrace the roundness of my body and count the
wrinkles on my face.
I will teach myself how to lie truthfully
and learn the language held in my hands.
When the moon is full I will call upon the magic
left to me by my grandmothers and make
friends with all my losses.
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