The poets are all lying when they say love is like a spool
of gold, a spoonful of honey. There’s no fireflies dancing
in veins. All you have to offer is fields worth of red silk,
and we both know I’ve always preferred the rhythm of
moth wings. I swaddle my heart like a cocoon, stuff the
inside with bees. Train it like a guard dog. Your voice
sends the buzzing into overdrive. I send my bloodstream
out for a monthly fire drill. Have it line up, call the names,
make sure we didn’t lose another piece in the flames. You
come slowly, all pollen laced fingertips, tempt even the
most well-behaved hive.

angelea l
Glittterbug

She could use her cigarette as a weapon. She would touch the glowing tip to the most sensitive, intimate parts of a naked body – male or female made no matter to her. Smiling as she tapped ash into an ashtray. She took such delight in her victims tears, their writhing as she touched the cigarette to smooth skin, and to the wildness she witnessed in their eyes. It was as if she inhabited a cave of forgotten wonder. Here, she saw restrained bodies in turmoil and pain, and could indulge herself for as long as she wished. Beyond the casement window a pale topaz sky above wind-swept moorland. The tip of her cigarette hovering, she could feel her own crises growing within – like a wave, a Tsunami of pleasure that would leave her ruined, broken. She crushed the cigarette against tender flesh, surrendering herself to the great tidal wave and the shrill scream of her victim –

focus my craft

July 7, 2017

I really hated poetry for most of my life, so it is kind of interesting that I’m now a poet. I still don’t like a lot of poetry. I get bored easily, and I am not interested in reading poems about the woods or whatever. I don’t know what a pasture is. So, I think the way that I have tried to focus my craft is writing poems that feel relevant to me and my life and reflective of that.

Morgan Parker
Interview with Sydney Gore for Nylon

Imagine what it must be like to stay hidden, disappear into the dusky nothing and stay still in the night. It’s not sadness, though it may sound like it. I’m thinking about people and trees and how I wish I could be silent more, be more tree than anything else, less clumsy and loud, less crow, more cool white pine, and how it’s hard not to always want something else, not just to let the savage grass grow.

Ada Limón
Mowing
From Bright Dead Things