poetry series #13: I Dreamt of Burning Houses

Show me how these fragments scatter,
& I’ll tell you how ugly is so fucking scenic.

You offered me house & I saw myself gazing from 3rd flight yellow window.
You named our children & organized their future as they bathed untouched in my uterus.
You wept your almanac of privileged problem, destitute upon me, 
			Did you ever even once witness the knots in my retinas?
You called me pretty, stroked my face & declared yourself proud,
			And then your snores rang bells to a funeral, not a wedding.

Becoming female: the art of sitting alone between mountain crevasse, knit the storm.

There’s so much loud grace in femininity peeled back like a fruit. Our juice anchors us to a reality relentless, flowering. We use these gardening tools to hijack the fire’s growth.

When I was 13, I dreamt of a row of houses on fire. I threaded paper bags into a sprawling lifeboat, and I sat within, and the cackling wind of the wildfire set my sail.


I can’t wait to spend the last holiday with all of these insane and good people.