Let me clarify, before I clarify. The part about anthropology is true, and history. But the androgyny, no. I am a woman in this now, and so are you. We made women out of each other, and misogynists as well. What a potion. Blood-stained sheets streaming from a third-story window. We are old world in this, as romantic as we began ( Read more... )

Sleepy, luscious leanings tonight, brazen as two cold coins pressed into the flesh, or a pocketful of other change elsewhere. The more I write you away from me, the sweeter is your lilting floating back into my open hand, paper ship on my mud puddle of a lake. My crouching form, and what is expected and accepted ( Read more... )

Five hours into it, ten years or whatever, there is always enough of a swagger left in your voice that no matter who you have been or what you are, I am standing a little straighter, feeling my skin a little tighter ( Read more... )

When you name me, my cadence is never enough, quaking slice of tangerine on your tongue, but just the one. You light me up, breathe me out your nose, and flick me to my cherry-bomb knees ( Read more... )

She had said, This is that part of you that will not even show one small withering, one weakening wall in the tiniest of its veins. She said to me, That is the only part worth killing off. And so we begin. Again ( Read more... )

It's a linguistic thing, a dance aross ice -- slender blades putting those double-runnered legacies to shame. If it is a language, then it is an obscure one, as soft as that cozy fur hood I wore all that winter, pond dancing across the frozen fish, snowflakes ripening on my tongue. If it is archetypal, then it is a romance, with rags and riches and ( Read more... )

Tracing my line over it, again and again. I try to memorize its shape and texture, or to give it such, or to deny it such. I like the way it feels on my fingertips. I like the way it breathes in and out of my skin, mingles what was mine before, and just and soul and sole and so ( Read more... )

It really isn't taking much today to get me to take a few slugs at myself, hit myself hard and where it hurts most at any given moment. The disruption of nonroutine, being just like everyone else. Walking away and away and away ( Read more... )

It's a lovely day today. Crisp and sunny, just like it never was there in our little pink beach house in Pacific Grove. Except for that one day, early on ( Read more... )

If only we could catapult through time, and I could look into your handsome face and benefit you in some way, show you what those self-inflicted wounds will bring you. If you keep running off those who love you most, we'll never run far -- we'll remain here, but painfully out of your reach. Trust me on this one, at least ( Read more... )