four thirty AM three doors down a crow finds its voice Trying out a lune this week. Posted on non-fic because, well, it's true.
Under a tangled arch of willow, ivy, and rose, she presses me back, back, against the rich loam, back, her fingers sly, her smile arch, her lips tipped with rose. Ever since the moon rose she has loved me well: my back is a bow, a lover’s arch. I arch my neck, cursing the rose-tinged … Continue reading My fair one
You once told me, the moon is made of salt, that all the tears that ever were are kept hidden there, disguised as dust. You spoke matter-of-factly, your pale face made sanguine by the dying sun. With deft fingers you stole dew from the grass, bade me drink from your palm. Above us, fronds of … Continue reading The truth of honey and salt
All the stars that crowd the ether— Unremarkable, compliant— Travel routes which are reliant On the plan prescribed by nature. Men’s desires have deceived her As she dwindles, meek and pliant, Though I bid her stay defiant. Once the pivot passed beneath her Never could she make a detour.
The things I forget are simple. Not your face, Or the color of your eyes (blue, with hints Of grey and gold, like the sea at dawn.) I forget the sound of birds marking the dawn, the taste of salt, the touch of sun on my face. I forget the shape of us. You left … Continue reading Castaway