waking the flowers

table of contents:
1. un/becoming
2. thalassophobia
3. seasonal departure
4. changing winds
5. untitled
6. dark days, dog days
7. present / presence
8. marked territory
9. hit-and-run
10. flow·er·ing
11. break the spell
12. on hunger & harvest moons
13. locus delicti
14. the california coast erodes more each year

un/becoming

spring unfurls itself from its shell, timid and becoming
of what the warm months promise: blue sky,
skin kissed with half-truths, summer beckoning
better days. it's here in this in-between that i am bare,
exposed, spread along the horizon like a bruise.
stories shift with the changings of the seasons,
and i remain where i've always been.

thalassophobia

i am thinking of the last time i held your hand, & even then it was outstretched & looking for something better. something you couldn’t put a name to, but felt connected to, as if it was already burned into your skin in prophecy. like a river to an ocean, always in motion. never mine.

i am thinking that this is where fear is born, in a desire so hot it boils to the surface. you, an intangible waterfall rush. me, ashes of a memory. i’ve never been able to let things go, but i wonder if i’ve ever even had you in the first place. this thought alone feels like drowning.

it always washes away: the hope, the moment, the fire i once felt.

seasonal departure

in the same way geese know their path home
i search for another word for goodbye
as if it, too, were mapped in the sky for me to follow

changing winds

many times i’ve outgrown this body
& yet i come up short, emptier than
the vessel i was born with. still,
i am weighed down

i hope this spring will be different

untitled

even the flightless birds wish to taste the sky
and kiss it like a forbidden lover

dark days, dog days

i.
winter wraps its cloak around you.
the days grow cold, yet the blanket
of snow keeps you warm. inside,
you can disappear into the darkness.
like a ghost, you become invisible.

ii.
summer seeps into view and the
days stretch awake, harsh and
without warning. in this spotlight,
you are exposed. the heat lingers
like bad breath. all your wounds
come to the surface in skin deep scabs;
the sun is not kind to scars.

present / presence

i am a house that has only ever been haunted. i have defined living by how many times death knocks at my door. the ghosts whisper in the wind & i catch their lies like a cold. they travel through the windows & their words fester in the floorboards. the past has a way of making itself at home.

marked territory

i’m told it is unbecoming of a woman to draw borders
around her body. and yet, i have known many men
who conquer land as if it were their own. their footprints
flow into each season like driftwood.

i, too, have seen places i never want to return to:
they are marked on my skin as their own landmarks.
i try not to revisit them, though they
are mapped in my memory.

the soil, though sweetened by spring’s tears,
is sacred year-round even where it has been walked over.

hit-and-run

the doe knows it to be the most prestigious
prey, and yet it still freezes in car headlights.
its fur is frostbitten and electric in the neon haze
of the vehicle, almost in poetic mimicry of winter’s
harsh welcome. if i were as ethereal in my last moment,
i too would become statuesque: carved in fear, yes, but
more alive than ever in death’s presence.
(things always become obvious to us
when we cannot have them)

flow·er·ing
/ˈflou(ə)riNG/
noun

i. in the stomach of the garden, raised bed belly-full of soil, you lay waiting. you were always a late bloomer. a stillborn seed. you’ve grown up with a sensitivity that has saved you: words bite in a bitterness of rotten fruit, but you will later learn to swallow it with the rest. so you stay hungry, ungrowing. a body that wants and wants and wakes up to a sky ungiving.

ii. the corpse flower is strong but shortlived. they say beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but blink and you might miss it. you do. your body is a spectacle for scrutiny: dying into itself, each season, in surrender. mortality in slow motion.

iii. you’ve learned to separate yourself from your sense of self. to accept the process. in progress. you’re caught between the teeth of two seasons and the grief eats hope whole. (the growing pains never end.) and so you take the long way home, plant yourself in places you’ve never been. dig into new territory, dig graves for the old. as if to be remembered for what you could be, not what you once were.

break the spell

in the storm, the sky cracks down the middle in an ugly seam, guts spilling out in beautiful disarray. we could never flash forward to the good days. it was always the lightning that struck us alive. the counting seconds between thunder, the spell that it had us under. and yet, there’s nothing magical about nature. but the way fate unfolded in front of our eyes, childish bodies dancing in the downpour, it's as if this was the only thing to live for.

once spellbound, we wake
to silence. the storm has passed:
we are skeletons.