Tag: anxiety

moon slip–poem

how silly my moon slip
into down     my lips
pocus wrap in yours
and I’m sorry about
celestial ache and howl
and how are you
getting down from here?
will you climb cloud
humid spilling? crawl?
beg the ailing air
to backbend into ladder
place your foot in the
spinal gnocchi rung
stumble out of this skin

——————————————–

life is crazy. my apologies for the sabbatical. 

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dream (poem)

all liquored up in bed and I am threaded into skin
and my sour sweat is sweet on chapped lips

and I dream in infants, their soft skin and endless chub
dangling limbs and gaping mouths

my mouth agape alone in a bed filled with body
filled with body and my skin dews as afternoon

rises, noon rises before ready and I am liquored
threaded in sour sweat

dreaming in infant skin and dangling limbs
and I can’t wipe the sweat from my skin

can’t wipe the skin from my skin
and it’s too hot here, too humid

and I dream in infants
but I don’t dream.

to wait (poem)

how silly of me to read your skin
pressing, your pressing as subcutaneous.

deep is relative. i know. and my reason
dizzies drunk on nonsense

on fancy on romance. on nonsense.
&i knew better than my excited

utterance, braided in borrowed sheets
in childhood bedrooms and now

i wait. like spoiling food, waiting
for teeth to sink and my nectar

to spill over lips, to be lapped up
to be savored, to be loved.

poison in the form of skin

 

oh sweet pea my lips
are fat with your poison
fat with your skin
pressed     the pressing
of skin is a precious
thing and so are your
soiled words hushed
against my neck   against
my neck   I use my breasts
to brace   for efficiency
they hold more than milk
you leak nightshade
all over my sheets   all
over my skin   the muscle
of your hands    the bend
of my muscle under your
hands    fingertips like
oleander petals and I
am sleep love drunk
rolled in flannel
the fire escape moon
silhouette on my thighs
on my thighs   on this
skin love like luck
could be a myth   and me
a drowning siren

I’m Not Afraid of Heights–poem

 

I don’t trust
myself on those
on-ramps,
all stilted
and looming.
I’m always eyes
on the edge,
counting pores
in concrete.
How cold
is that water
is that air
kissing this
skin with burn
and brackish.
Dizzying, always
thinking about
driving off.
Would those
pores hold?
or snap
from their
hollowed gut.

 

Of Course

If I cut open this skin
saline and whiskey
would spill
from the spread
lips
of the wound

maybe some
earl grey
spoiled
milk
the pulp of my lungs

and I’d be
a mess of words
all consonants
and muddled vowels
all why
and how
come come come

come to bed
and warm my blood
everything is
so
so cold here

of course I’m
fine