#1469

the genius of Washington, ancient and wise
her heart a molten core
her skin the grains of mountains weathered by wind and rain and ice and time
her nails delicate pink seashells
her eyes the flashing of lighthouses beckoning lost ships
her hair a tangle of cedar boughs and blackberry vines and cold, clear creeks
her shoulders mountains capped in snow
her breasts beach dunes brushed by wind and waves
her feet granite, her legs layers of glacial till and volcanic ash
her hips the curved bays of rocky shores
her scent rainstorms and sea salt and wet animal musk
her lips red as summer’s prize apples
her smile daffodils breaking through winter dead fall
her voice the susurration of wavelets, her laughter bird calls
her presence the ripe harvest moon, heavy and gold in a velvet sky

[ I'm reading a modern retelling of A Christmas Carol called Ebenezer in which the ghost of Christmas past is represented by the genius of Utah. I loved the concept of personifying a state, so I began wondering what my home state of Washington would appear like to me. ]

#1462

She says to write about myself but I don’t know how. If I try to look too deep all I see are the individual pieces I’ve gathered like a crow building its nest; scraps of sound, shards of sight, pieces of texture and taste and temptation. I lose my sense of self to the mosaic until I forget if I’m a girl or just sea salt and fog and candleflicker in dark windows. When I turn within myself and ask “who am I?” no voice answers. All I hear is the susurration of the ocean and the wind through pine boughs. When I turn within myself and ask “what am I?” all I feel is the heartbeat of mountains and the stars revolving overhead.

#1457

it feels like an ocean inside me
rising up, flooding every chamber
but that’s not what I dream about;
I dream about liquid fire
seismic cataclysm
and me screaming over the thunder;
about jet planes nosediving
falling from the sky like diseased birds dashing themselves on rocks
escape by suicide;
about crumbled cities
radiation
refugees and ghosts;
it seems these days
all my nightmares are about losing you

#1380

it’s all so forced, like rainwater on concrete, pooled and stagnant and longing to slip between the cracks, seek the fractured pathways to seep into rich earth, slumbering seeds, they must be there somewhere beneath the cap of tar and whitewash, tell me somewhere deep beneath my soles there are still the sleeping possibilities of fields and forests and wildflower meadows, fairy rings, the places to which our kind had always escaped until we found the way barred and can now only pine, in ink or charcoal or stanza, for flight and sanctuary and drop tired, so tired, to scrape our knees on the cement, but maybe just a drop of that blood will find its way down into the dreaming soil to soak into the hard black core of a seed and remain sealed there, safe, safe in a way our bodies and hearts above ground shall never be, but at least this single bead of our essence may remain protected while we stumble on in our endless seeking, desperate for proof we can still flee to sanctuary, just promise us we can still flee

#1375

You’re like the desert, parched for life-giving rain, longing for sustenance, yet while a drop of affection dries too quickly on your cracked and dusty surface to provide even a moment’s nourishment, a downpour of love cannot soak through quickly enough and so roars as a deadly flash flood through the gullies and pits of your scars, wiping away what weak green buds have managed to take root in the unforgiving soil.