Wednesday, January 22, 2014

Response of the Unnamed

Did you think your words made you creator-god
of four-line walls with two-line doors
where I could be trapped
by faint praise?
Did you think you would recreate and save me,
absent of lines from time and smiles,
eternized as shadow,
a pillar?
Your metaphors hold and erase me.
Like Lot’s wife into salt, 
voiceless, you leave me
turned to phrase.

Thursday, January 16, 2014


They huddle,
breath mingling,
gathering by twos to the heat, voices loud
to match the crackling wood. They see
each other and curl cold hands together and
are blind to the stars
and me, and you.

You strike
a match behind your empty hand
and your fingers are a red glow. Shadow
flickers over your face.
You puff smoke and steamed breath, toss
the dark-burned stick, see
my empty hand matching and you want
to fill mine with yours.

I turn away,
to the rustling grass,
and stretch my fingers into the icy air, refusing
to curl or cling to yours.
Already in love
with the sky—not the stars
but the space between.