slinklove, you pile your hands upwards towards my skin – a bottle-nosed dolphin and something mammalian and curved – like the willow of a spine, the petercottontail of a clavicle. bones, rapturous, rattling against one another – flesh: hollow, formed, willing, perpetual. windowpane of your eyes/ they keep approaching, following, leveling. is it your shape or your circumstance i find myself in? is it this bed or this hurricane i keep myself bonded to? is it proximity? this thing – desire – is it close to me? or closeness to the sea (which heralds me back, and in heralding, bonds me – keeps me never approaching anything other than the brine of the sea)

is it intimacy, or the sea calling me back? is it ever approaching? your skin/the nape of your circumstance/my hunger/lust, or something language approaches; like teeth

is it skin; a shell; a sea/
or the shore, lapping back?

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hungering, hungering

i felt thirst for life come over me like a violence – supple, surrendering. drink through me from my fingertips to my roots. root me in a resonance round and repeating. i felt hunger for lust thundering through me like a rapture – spring had bounded through branches into buds. spring had curled into seeds and knocked twice. life had flung out like a drummer – noting, present, pearlescent. i felt dirtsmell and humus grumble sinking out of the snowmelt. i felt, i felt, i hurled my heart into a ball and let me blood burn white again – spring is here, the daffodil said. spring is here, the crocus called. spring is following you down the road – hungering, hungering, here comes the feast.

circumstantial circumstance and the circus tent over your head big enough to keep the light out. keep the light out, keep the light bright.

tree-breath wanderer branch – you keep growing in the winter dew, you keep splaying – sun baked and revelrous. the world keeps spinning round, the winter keeps winding down. come little spring, come. winter bones, winter-melt, come wash yourself away.

yes, but can you fly?

she said be a feminist, that’s what she told me to do. i told her my femininity was a pair of old crows tied to my appendages/i told her my mouth would flood rivers with fantasy/ i told her princessmermaid ariel was strapped to my head in a series of painfully acquired hair-extensions and i told her i was already woman-enough to know my womanhood. i wrapped this hood (little red’s or robin’s, or something on the spectrum between femininity and what you want me to be) around my face – i wrapped it (head covers, hijabs, nun-ification and all the other references aside) – i wrapped it close. i felt this rapture, the wrapping-paper still paper-mached to my mother’s fingertips. i felt all the paper, the plastic, the riptide lipstick lacquered onto my lungs (by now, I’m sure, like tar from cigarettes – doesn’t makeup stick to ribcages too?)

i made up my mind to matter. i willed my matter to mistake myself for a woman. i willed my womanhood to hold close to my own hood (childhood being at least one reason why). i went, hooded and clutching, hansel and greteling and groveling and ingratiating my way all the way to that hut in the woods (goldilocks was there, but baba yaga too). i told baba yaga of the words that keep wrapping around my head like a hood (is it a scarf, or a rapture). she told me courage was a monument; i was a firebird; love was a causation; the divine feminine was a lake. i told her i had lost the ability to interpret fairy tales (childhood being at least one reason why), (and that furthermore, they were encouraging me not to). she said to be a woman, that’s what she told me to do. i told her my femininity was a pair of old crows tied to my appendages.

the wind is waiting to warp you

here was a word I once knew how to own, and here was a body I once knew how to inhabit.

here was a season I once flooded – here is a season I’ve never met. here is a month drenched in climate confidence (change and circumstance, pomp and confusion). here is my child, here is my breath. here is my constantly churning yearning for the knowledge that I am brave enough to articulate what tiny words I know (together, they are a spell/apart, they are a whimsy; a whimper; a wish). here is Meinong’s jungle, here is a hacksaw. here is Aquinas’s’ theory of natural law, here is nature, tapping at my window, asking to come in. here is the new season, tapping on my tongue – asking to come in. asking me to come out, come out – see the splendid seeds brandishing their stalks and stems. come out, come out – pull your skin towards the sun once more. come out, come out, the clocks will tumble too – we’ll all lift our faces towards the sun/tilting/tilting/we’ll all till the land, kill the clock, shake the ice out of our senses. here is the season – come out, come out/the wind is waiting to warp you.

spring natal

a surefire way to know nothing at all is to fight about everything you see.


someday you’ll open the door, after a winter-ball of months rolled up under the carpet comes yardballing out across the floor – you’ll open the door; you’ll see a field of purple crocuses dancing on the hill. you’ll see spring rooting through the soil – pushing, baby-lunged and pregnant, waiting to burst. the prenatal core of the earth placenta-flooded and filled with grass waiting to turn green. you’ll see, you’ll see; one day you’ll open the door and spring will be staring back like an anchor. like a river. like something you can wade in to/float along, swim down, dive deep, dig wild. and wilder. come back, old wild one.

someday you’ll open the door; you’ll see a field of purple crocuses dancing on the hill.

word bliss/am i in love with the sound or in love with the reflection of form on a blank space?

i am a small series of hyphens and fuck it.

something gurgles and i gurgle back.

something tips and i tip under.

the world is hurricane and thunder and how come you don’t see how interconnected it is? how come you all don’t see it?