For the trees
I couldn't see the forest
for the trees had been cut down.
My hands are calloused from
clutching too tightly around the idea
that we could dissolve into dust
or sink so deeply into our mother's arms
as to absolve ourselves these thoughts.
And there are cuts on unclenched palms
from where you've made diamonds
out of bad decisions held so long.
Just another casualty
in the coalmine of dirty thoughts.
I know that you
are not just
but I still
past the florets
that litter the space
from your neck
to your hips.
I distract myself
by biting nails
and tearing holes
in the soft fabric
Where the wild things are
In my chest
I hear pounding
of my heart
beneath my ribs
beside my lungs
inside it's cage.
It echos thundering
of wild beasts
leaving hoof prints
in the snow
as they search
for what's left
of wild spaces.
It's not Christmas now,
take down the decorations
and put them away.
Colder than Antarctica
Alberta skies and no forgiveness.
No ocean waves erasing.
Or sandy shores kissing calloused feet.
Just harsh sounds of silence on snowfall
and frost-bitten ears.
In these moments I am more wool
than water, than flesh.
Just quivering skin under knit.
You are there.
Flirting with warm days and sun rays,
where sky meets self until you radiate golden.
And I am here.
With my back towards the mountains
and wind whipping through my hair.
My head is a hive
My head is a hive,
and though the humming
can drive me mad,
my mind melts with honeythoughts.
There is sweetness
and in stickiness.
buzzing towards beauty
or armed with weapons.
I pray you are not scared of bees.
The half-full cup of coffee on the table
and the mail by the front door
and the dishes in the sink
and the fish swimming on the mantle
and the bookshelf by the stairs
are just tricks to make me feel like this is home.