sometimes I am tall and stern unsmiling in my power full of spine and spines and sometimes I am feather-soft silver leaves sprawling on the soil awaiting feet and fingers for my blossoms sometimes I am a bitter brew, swirling and full of dark moon prophesies and awful knowing and sometimes I am beestings milk golden sweet and saving precious things each season meant to take its turn each shift part of this spiral dance of life and love and hurt and hope and death and me: both tomb and womb of these conflicting truths some mornings there is sunlight some mornings there is fog or frost or thunder and black waves no moon is always full all night skies keep graves of their own making graves of their former selves
what color is love? how does it taste? by Tiger--eyes, literature
Literature
what color is love? how does it taste?
i want to recognize it when i see it. have i seen it ? or have all these words been smoke disappearing into wind like promises believed on new year’s day ? and if i were not so made of stories, could i cut the new tongues out and keep only ancient parts of me to speak the earth, the tides? and if i were not so made for stories, would i still be writing out our endings til i find the one that fits like a detective hunting clues to solve a crime? . i once thought that there was poetry between us, the woven word our own uniting god. and always always has an asterisk, i always understood that but but the blades into the tapestry-- that part was a surprise.
where is the sunrise? i've waited for it all my life. thought i glimpsed it twice, thought i'd get it right, thought i'd out-truth the lies— still, it's only midnight. tell me, will i ever see you again? i'm terrified of the road ahead: all the crows lined up to witness the beginning of the end. all the mourning doves preparing to love me when i'm dead. will you attend my funeral at least a hundred times? how much must i carry once you get too tired? i don't know how to stop setting forest fires: i'll destroy everything that's mine. there is nothing that i own. what do you owe me? a smile in the darkness, the fireflies in your heart? will you never leave me if i put you in a jar? or take the first chance to run fast & far, to put two thousand miles, between us, on your car? when you look at the forest, do you see only trees? i see deer trails, bird nests, stones in the creek. me chasing you chasing me. will i ever stop waiting for people to leave?
and i articulated myself into ghost again alone together we barely breathe where once your touch was comfort where once your hands asked questions of my body now i hear admonish- ments my stomach fills with dark moons and black grief . i con- verse alone no longer a galaxy to map . it is not my lot to be met so i’ll eat my own mouth while you quit you have shifted the verse on its head
would you see me through the pines? by inthespacebetween, literature
Literature
would you see me through the pines?
the darkness in me hides itself well: curled up in the spaces between my ribs, clinging to my spine, but then it's right there, in plain view, in my eyes. always, always on the inside, always held tight, always mine. i'd hate to see anyone else hold it. i don't know if they could. it unfurls like an endless winter wood, the whole world one bleak, lifelong childhood. at night, i dream no one wants me on their team. i play alone. all my friends live in my head instead of down the road. when i reach the end of the sidewalk, i don't turn around; i step off. i wake & wonder who would choose me— probably everyone. would it be enough?
how can I talk about anything without talking about god? those first eyes behind dark glass watching me bathe and sleep and fail perfection named the same name (father) as the loud fists on the door I have been reading weather all my life and asking what it means asking if I should have stopped the drought predicted floods seen the storm cell brewing and uprooted myself before it uprooted me or if I should have loved the lightning the heavens shouting shaking bones the shocks that shot straight through the trunk as piety demands should I have loved the blade above loved to be the lamb? . father was a fearsome god his iron rod not spared and i not spoiled espaliered outside the chapel every man I knew was never “he” but He and Him and His the last, most important of all: my body, His all of my harvests to be tipped into His bowl my womb, a cradle for His offspring so i failed to make His son good god, what a relief to spare this earth another Him
oh
and how I wish
you hadn’t had
to fall in love
with me
when
for all you claim
there are fishes out aplenty
you had to cast your lure
into my waters
and let me reel
you in
.
I have
been known
to make men think
that they’ve found safer grounds
but when our paths diverge
they scramble on my scree
and tell me
I was supposed
to be their
meadow
.
love
I am not sprawling clover
not even keel and soft
in dappled sun
I am
a little bit
more wicked
a little bit more
shadowed crags
more
the mountain beast
bewitching
more
and still
without a name
more and still without a name by Tiger--eyes, literature
Literature
more and still without a name
do not marry muses . oh, he loved me like the mountains irrational from air too thin but inspired by the heights dreaming that he’d call this beauty home but mountains always have been more parts beast than beauty devouring dreaming men caught up in touching stars but unprepared for six full months of winter and air that splits the skin seasons when you forget how the world looked in the sun crags most unbecoming and icy falls the desiccated deer dead in the duff . do not marry muses we wake with bags under our eyes and cry for blood and nectar cast runestones into ashes drinking lye and dripping dark moons down our thighs we muses eat our own hearts every night there is a price to pay for every soaring height
Do you like to play God? To mold minds into creatures yet unknown to mankind - He states, “Watch what I create. A monarchy. Follow where she flies, and see these cities rise.” [Fate of an empire in a New Age.]