A very acceptable ratio of trash to treasure.
Do you think we’re shaped more by our experiences or by who we are?
deoxyribonucleic acid
splintered
by words that wear away
at my insides
Rip
and
tear
Sharp
Like a carving tool
A baby’s breath
of raw material
in
broken
Hands
the sun
is weeping
sickly orange
light
through the window
casting shadows
that stretch
smoke thin
fingers
across the floor
like it can reach us
even inside
and everything
is burning
wood
flesh
stone
the hum
of insects
extinguished
as the flowers
gasp in the
swelter
children
wearing
medical masks
too small
for the breadth
of this
lungs alight
with cinders
and
i can taste
the ashes
on my tongue
What’s a book you think deserves a sequel?
There is light,
creeping past the unlatched door
A breath
caught
in the throat
Frozen
in the happy ending
Or the darkness
of the chapter’s close.
No path beyond the final word
For characters
made of ink
and wood pulp
that almost breathed
alive
between the pages
What villain actually had a good point?
She is cold.
Like marble.
A statue.
Playing
at being
human.
She doesn’t understand her audience.
Their desires.
So she dances —
wearing masks
of comedy
and tragedy.
Lashing out
at the hands
that reach for her.
Even though
she craves
their touch.
She’s never really trusted
Fingers not to hurt.
A tongue not to tear.
Words not to twist.
So she hides.
Behind the violence.
Behind the performance.
Maybe that makes her
the villain
of the story.
But you–
you built the theater.
If you could live anywhere in the world, where would it be?
I would live
Nestled in the crook of your arms
Where I could hear your heart
Steady in your chest
Where I measured time by the dawn and dusk
Slipping fingers of light and shadow across your skin
Our breath
In tandem
Like the tide
Washing against the shore
You —
my home
amidst the waves
i am shattered
drained and weary
to the marrow
of my bones
the world keeps its teeth in me
i can feel my blood
spilling past
its eager tongue
like rain
until the sky is dark
What do you complain about the most?
the ice
cold, creeping
breaks against my skin
bleeds into my lungs
and makes them burn
like a scream
untethered
but it isn’t the weather
not really
the ice
wears boots
and breathes
sanctioned cruelty
into radios
a mocking prayer
procedures and paperwork
and zip ties.
and a little boy
in a bunny hat
begging to go home.
What have you been working on?
I’ve been working on resistance —
resistance to the cold
weaving its tendrils
through the soft tissue of my brain
The numbness
leaching color from my eyes
until even the blood
soaking the soil
is grey
What are your favorite types of foods?
I crave:
Bread, warm from the oven,
butter melting into the tender crumb.
The taste, nearly sweet,
soft,
melting in my mouth.
Peaches so ripe
they bruise beneath my touch,
juice dripping down my chin
with each bite,
sticky like honey,
their fragrance —
flowers and sugar
clinging to my fingers.
A curl of cheddar cheese,
salt blooming on my tongue,
the flavour lingering like fresh cream.
And water, cold and crisp,
ice clinking in the glass
sparkling like diamonds.
I lie,
sated,
in the glow
of the summer sun.
They say that it’s beautiful
to love
the unloved thing –
like spiders.
Like insects.
You were so loved.
A precious little creature
small enough to hold
in my hands
I’ll never understand
how anyone could look at you
and see anything
but sweetness.
You made me smile.
Your tiny whiskers,
dark eyes like black gems,
catching the light
whenever you noticed me.
So soft
as you curled
into my sweater.
Your darling tail
that wrapped around my wrist
made others recoil
calling you
gross
or vermin.
But you were never that to me.
You were my friend.
And the world
feels a little emptier
without you here.
Blood in the Bramble 