Archive by Author | Emily

Moonstorm

The blessing moon –
you count them now,
one hand or two.
It’s grown its face,
but hides in storm –
and I know how it feels.
I know how it feels.
I know how it feels.

Spring’s End

I try to dig you from the bone –
a complicated extrication –
but the weakening is beyond me,
and I need these nerves
for walking away.

What does it mean
when my footsteps no longer frighten?
You turn me such a tangle –
a constant call
to enough and not.

Still,
everything sings,
and I find the subtle breath.
Restraint
is a strange summer lesson.

Submit

Go.
Go and be what you will.

I held your ghost
like a shell to my ear,
but never had more
than an echo of ocean –
shallow and unreal.

And I do not know
what I would be,
but this battle does not serve.

I am tired of bleeding.
And I am tired of burning.
All to no end.

So go.
Keep yourself to yourself,
if you must.

And I will lay down
the shell,
the spear,
and submit
to this season of silence.

Reach

Just a rainy-day indulgence?
Today the roses are blown,
but it is the time
for always something growing –
we ride the swell of it,
filled to bursting.
Always something to replace
what’s gone.

She pushes him
to her feet,
and he plants kisses
inside her ankle.

You and I owe each other nothing.
But my shoulders
and hands get tired.

If only you could find it in you
to trust yourself enough
to reach –

If only I could find it in me
to step out from behind
these foolish convolutions –

Then all this lingering sweetness –
the air that follows rain
and pushes in upon us –
might mean something.

Earthly delicious

What did they know of this place
before its gate swung open?

A name?
Whispers of rumor? –
and yet,
they choose it.

Seed clouds uplifting
to the sun,
just so –
vision flames
and fades –
the insidious persistence,
the peril of the eye.

We never can escape it.

We must teach it
the daily incarnation.

Today, I walked in,
spider in my hair,
heat and dirt,
sweet and salty skin,
mud on my cheek,
ground into knuckles.

And he found a way to see that.

Offering

When you withhold it,
I want to push
past the soft edge
of these curves –
explore outside
the angle of your eye.

And I couldn’t tell you
what it is that hurts –
head, heart or hip –
only that the bending lines
bring me to this,
sand and dirt.
We dig in,
learning the lie
of old teeth and new.

I give it up
for nothing.
Let him take –
ease past the gate,
deeper,
a garden full of shadow,
shifting with the progress of light –
lowering my eyes,
I let him.

Settle

And sudden from the overgrown,
a sense of frightened flight –
reclusive wing rises to it
then settles back
to withholding,
unaware how we wield words
and the winding of strings.

The mute swan sits her nest,
and a warbling
again gives you away.
We still have long eyes.
And we still know
where the risk is too steep.
We climb alone,
together,
a union of effort.

Wind across water
waves cattails
as if to say,
So here you are.
We’d been wondering.
And it moves
more subtle too –

in graying eyes
and bones that settle themselves
like hidden birds
to wait,
to accept –
what purpose,
what pain and pleasure
it brings.

Real

A day for not-naming,
for not-knowing.
And I shed the dream
like winter’s clothes.
His hand rests
on the thin soft skin
of the excavation,
tender.
And I’m hoping the storm
can’t catch me again.
Only my own bliss to seek.
You don’t ever need
to worry –
this lightning
can’t reach past
our stomping ground.
I remember.
And I forget –
we are deviant, yes,
but never devious.
We play at escape,
but all for the page.
And no one gets hurt
from pretend.

Taken

It stays with me now –
all the ways
I have bent myself
into an offering,
a proof.

And I want him here,
like I wanted him there –
and you’d think a decade
would learn to surpass fear.
But we invent new ways
to worry.

So again,
I am making myself
an altar –
and this bent black magic resonates
with all the waking wet green.

Go ahead.
Offer him anything he wants.

Someday you’ll learn
all the words for need,
and how one can want
without taking.

By Roots

I’ve been working this strange mojo –
knee deep in weeds,
a spell for banishing fear.
Mine’s gone absent.

Imagine myself wielding
what I don’t even believe in.
We make it to forgetting
simultaneously.

And I want to be opaque,and so solid
the wind cannot move through me.
No one else defines this.
No one else chooses.

You don’t know.
You cannot know the poignancy –
the breathlessness–
that comes of being visible.

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