In the
of water,
I will make
clay cups
from my body,
like swallows
that build nests
to make a home.

And when
the rain
comes again,
we can drink
moving in the
refraction of light,
that dances
on the water.


Pink Pressed Flowers

I started to write you a letter,
on lineless paper, containing
pink pressed flowers; you could
almost smell the sweetness.
It’s bound in a book of leather;
so smooth to the touch.

I hope it died humainly.

For now, my skin is soft,
but it changes each day,
like the lines that grow
in story on my face.

(breathe in)
“Dust to dust little girl,”
the preacher said.
(breathe out)
In a dark underground church,
where the dirt was void of water.
(breathe in)
“Come, sit at the piano bench,”
he said.
(breathe out)
No music played,
nor could I hear the birds
singing outside in the sunshine.

But this letter is on lineless paper,
containing pink pressed flowers,
in a leather bound book.
It almost smells sweet…
in the death of memory
through the pages.


Sometimes I wonder,
who is she that looks
back at me,
how many times
have I lived and died,
and what do you know
that you are not telling me?
I have fallen into the dark
so many times,
the humble dirt…
where life begins and ends.
~ What of the albatross
to the Ancient Mariner,
and the window to the
Lady of Shalott,
and of course…
by any other name
I would be the same!
~ My lips are rosy
and my hair is golden,
but a kiss is but a kiss,
for love stays and lust goes.
~ I am here…
and tonight I saw the brightest
stars through the trees,
like winter apples,
and yes, I picked them
and made wine.
~ Love, what of my reflection?
Soon enough i’m sure,
all my answers will be clear.