Thirteen times a year.
I am bloody and raging,
and so hungry.
I would eat a person
But I don’t.
Instead, today, I sink my teeth into chocolates
and fume quietly in my cave.
I keep myself there for protection
Walled in with books and music.
I might bite your head off
and then feed the rest of you to the others.
Yes, there are others.
My sisters and I sometimes dance bloodied in tattered clothes
Howling out all the injustices while we pick old bones clean.
Our terrible beautiful mouths stained with a gruesome justice.
But don’t blame me.
Thirteen times a year the moon insists
That I be a werewolf.
Thirteen times a year.
She used to see faces in
the wood grain walls.
The sad faces worried her.
She sometimes stared at floors,
wanting to find the break
in the pattern.
Repeats were boring.
She needed to find the anomaly.
The wooden walls were more interesting,
full of stories and emotions.
Outside on summer nights
the stars whispered tales.
Leo wasn’t a lion then,
but a sea monster devouring the dark.
Later, learning constellations made her sad.
Now, she still finds her own pictures in things,
You’ve got to keep busy they say.
Old hands become cold hands,
and even hot dishwater can’t keep
them warm anymore,
and not even the boiling cup of coffee,
or the steaming bowl of cabbage soup,
or the layers of flannel and thermal shirts
you have to wear in the house in the summertime,
and not even the electric fireplace plugged in next to your bed.
Maybe my hands can keep your hands warm for a little while.
I hope so, as I hold your hand,
and try not to let you know I notice the cold.
There was a time
when we closed our mouths
listened with our hearts
dust pooling out
of archaic corners
from within shipwrecked vessels.
Our hearts listened then
to the faintest murmurings
at the bottom of the depths:
songs lodged there that had
I heard your echoes and you heard mine.
and we laid them to rest
beneath the mud, and lulled them to
sleep with our new songs.
But we look at each other today.
Mouths wide open.
The old echoes rising up and
drowning those songs we created together.
like a fountain of shine.
The moon kept count.
How many times could I hold your light?
It didn’t hurt me,
but I cried.
Too many things in my basket
They wouldn’t fall out in the darkness
while I ran.
But one day I let go of my basket,
and hoped for an eternity,
but the moon is still weeping,
and I have rocks I need to eat.
There was a girl
Who had lively things
Swirling about in her heart.
But that was a long time ago.
I left my heart in a box
around the corner
miles away from here.
I didn’t mark it.
I have no way of finding it again.
And I wonder why I have trouble sleeping at night.
Half dreams of almost grasping;
Feeling like I have a heart,
but I wake too soon.
Mourning in the morning
won’t work before work.