Poetry
Artichoke
The heart is the best part;
mother always said;
but you were bereaved to peel the way
to such a reward.
Sucking spiky leaves
she would guide your hands
to the treasured core.
Soft hands.
Sharp leaves.
Melted butter
coating soft green underbellies
surface scraped of flesh.
You didn’t eat enough
before discarding the leaf,
so mother was left
to suck them dry.
The heart was hairy
spiny tendrils sticking to your hands
too tired to collect your reward;
mother took the heart,
slipped nail beneath skin
peeled away the scratchy scalp,
returning tender heart to you.
When I Dream Of Purple
Plums drip wet on my hands
as I pluck their curled leaves
their skin dappled black
under shinning sun
A gentle crunch as fingers press
the small dry flower
drawing out
the gentle scent
At the machine a child trades
quarter for the sickly sweet taste
of grape hard-candy
turning the rock round and round with tongue
In a field of my own making
I hold close scentless pansies
whose fluorescent faces
dance in the wind
A darkened bruise
rests upon cut lip
I vow
not to let it happen again
No Island
I ripped up my roots
and flooded my feet
to sweep myself far
away on the breeze
but now it is still
and despite standing tall
I know I am weaker
for leaving you all
After The Fire, All You See
black
jet-black
pure-black
darker-than-the-night-sky-black
how-do-you-come-back-from-that-black
you took a small chunk of charcoal off a nearby tree
professional-artist-quality-black
smudged stark on the white page
where the house once stood
black
what-do-you-mean-you-lived-here-black
the only evidence of what was there
the stone fireplace you used to play
fairy princess on
outside as far as the eye could see
black
how-can-one-guy-do-this-black
how-could-you-be-so-stupid-black
the ground crackled underfoot
black
how-does-this-happen-black
why-couldn’t-you-stop-this-black
where-do-we-go-from-here-black
Wishing To Burn
Grandmother used to console me
whenever I would cry
at burnt trees stood
on the side of the road.
She would tell me, burning gave
new life. It awoke seeds
that would otherwise lie dormant
in pine cone wombs.
I would wish for fire
to burn away the imperfections
I was so sure held me in place,
I was so sure stopped my bloom,
but fire never came,
and skin only grew thicker.
So I learned to grow without fire,
a birth without destruction.
The Sea, My Father
sand castle girl
saltwater father
wash her away with your tide
take what she’s built
with your wetted sand
and pull it back to hide
sand castle girl
saltwater father
hit her again with your wave
knock her down low
perhaps just to show
the sun won’t shine again