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it's the kind of faith that men bomb abortion clinics for-- not Christian, but tremble-fingered and red-eyed and sleeping with fingers between holy pages or rolling papers, when each verse ...

I broke down the other day, like an old car run out of fuel, and told him that I didn't know what to do. He unzipped my chest and said, ...

We picked dandelions from the cemetery and tucked them in our coat pockets. When the construction came, they dug up and moved the bones and burned the rest like banned ...

I wake up on a rooftop, crying because dreams are devastating and people in the street think it rain.

he flies south for sun, north for a nest, and he carries winter home. in lullabyes, the devil sings and dances on wings like wind or dust (or oil) and ...

it's back-- the self loathing of a reflection (in books and parables and the stories that people tell you when they want to show you horrible people are, how you ...

in talking I hang myself with my own tongue; in chewing self hatred I cross mirrors like broken bridges or crackle like tea leaves in sun dried pitchers and I ...

I wake and my ribs ache. I can't take bone snagging bone snagging blood, like my blood or tangled network of veins is some bird's nest that is this close ...

I eat fruit in the hopes that it will blossom in me. My mother used to tell me "Don't eat the seeds, they'll grow watermelons in your stomach," and I'd ...

It seems I can hardly take myself, nestled in the stomach of my bed, and step away before I am swallowed by the rest of the world.

I have a daughter, and she is a sun. She lays nestled in my body like a shell or peony, pink and soft and quiet. In burning, she warms my ...

there is something beautiful in the skin of the dead; thin and leathery, cold and pale-- old books splayed across bodies. I read you in your grave, and mourn. inspired ...

in breaking mirrors, I break myself. in looking at broken glass I see shards of self: broken bottles stuck in bloody hands and I drink my reflection like a poison.

Rain falls into his open hands: crescent moon, open mouth, song streaming through flat topped trees like heaven haven hope. He is thirsty. He’s never seen the sea and he ...

my skin is pressed thin as flowers living in books-- each spring dries me further, cracks at the wrinkled parts of my elbows, knees, the softness lying in the palms ...