June 2016

poem27 Jun 2016 09:00 am

My son, my sun, fly towards
a moon brighter than cat eyes
peering from the dark, grab
angel wings like a devil
denied so long those delicate,
delicious features.

Clouds will be your sign of royalty,
the crown upon your
heathen brow upheld, as flighty
subjects honk your praise
and name. It was your father’s,
slip into it like a shirt.

Ground left bereft of you will never
kiss your soles again, as you
are blessed. Blue, weighted sky above
will just crack open, an Easter
egg with a yolk of stars and
night to be devoured.

Will you remember your mother up
there when her hair tickles
your back as knotted rope?
When you stretch my dress and flesh
to soar and bones to steer?
Will you, at least, cry for me when it rains?

poem20 Jun 2016 06:42 am

girlhood maps we drew
pencil forests covering a table
no rivers or cities, just forests
of pine trees stacked arrows on arrows
parallel trunks to ground

you were a duchess and i was a robot
i was an empress and you were an elf
i was a warrior and you were a warrior made of gold

is the point in the story where you lose your shine
in college I learn I’m not so smart
age branches us to fond distance

you never did
i never did
it never did

instead we were white ghosts in rice-stepped mountains
instead we pulled weeds from the desert

now your daughter is an elf
and a warrior and a map of trees

we seek the linchpin of the moon

poem13 Jun 2016 07:39 am



 Photo by Eddie Yip from Groningen, the Netherlands (夏季銀河東升) [CC BY-SA 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0) or CC BY-SA 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

Summer nights slay you. They’re sour-sweet
as cherries, as the blueberries ripening,
so rich you have to wipe them from your chin.
Thick enough with fruit that you must cut them
with a knife. And what is it that you find inside?
Thousands of lights. Stars. Fireflies. Gems
amongst the velvet fur of sky. They spill
like the Milky Way until the darkness is bled dry.

Echo of the white tides, what have you done,
emptying the night like a cut-purse? Will you
weave your spoils into a web to bind the flow
of your long hair? No. You stoop to gather up
the scattered riches, then raise your arms to paint
and populate the sky, spatter the sparks against
the dark, seeding it until it fruits again and all
your treasures drip like diamonds from its chin.

the arts06 Jun 2016 07:25 am

Update on the Athena mask (see previous posts for the background):