It always takes time
to find her own stride
when she finally feels
space to be alone.
Four elements fill
the voids of voices.
Solitude billows
under the earth's
encouraging stomp.
The fire ants bite
at her unpolished ankles,
and the rusting dirt
burrows its way in
to her clothes and camp.
She grumbles against
the cracked limestone
and whipping weather.
She learns
to shed layers
from trusting
her own micro
movements,
like the dawn’s
high tide singing
serenade duets
with the ten
trillion broken
down and wind-
weathered mineral
I want to name you cinder, so I can burn you down to a combustible coal with no flame, chopped churned coated over the rough road of my tastebuds to melt each still icy shadowed remnant of last winter’s memories.
I want to name you scoop, and just that easily I will spoon you up with one large ladle then swallow you whole like a simple sacrifice meant to let me learn the flavor of your parts from the inside.
Imagine a Woman
standing still
at the shoreline,
wrapped in the
seasalted blankets
of this world's
oldest ocean.
Seagulls circle
But Sometimes The Moon
peeks through
winter weather
to paint
silver streaks
between
my marks:
bright lines
meant to
remind me
how tracing
my own stars
will always
bring me home.
to become
unbreakable.
My shoulder
blades shake
when I think of
white windmills,
sailing stiff
on purpose.
How do I spin
strongly through
the wind and
still stay soft?
two feet from my father
and ask him where
his heart belongs.
With two free hands
he embraces the wind,
breathes in with closed eyes
and
Last week I travelled to Montana for opening weekend of hunting season. The wild sage on our hunting grounds extends to the far reaches of our land, and it's smell welcomes me home every time. This latest return to my homeland inspired me to change the name of the art I've so lovingly created.
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