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Literature Text
her spine was dusk
and unmade nests,
but he tried to live there
anyway;
he was neither nocturnal
nor a dawn-believer,
so he suffocated
in the birdhouse of her ribs.
Literature
untitled
i keep plant seeds
under my bed in hopes
that one day my
limbs might grow into trees
and you can climb through
the branches in your sleep.
Literature
seventeen
my teeth
are the seats
in the wake
of my mouth
for all
of the words
that have died
in my throat
Literature
gossamer love
you will love a woman
who uses the word
gossamer
too often. she will
diagnose dead artists' descents
into madness and laugh
too loudly at jokes
no one understands.
she will braid crowns of
flowers, she will write poems
in constellations, she will
try to walk like a dancer so
no one can hear her
leave. she will be
an ice sculpture, and when
she cries, you'll convince yourself
she's melting, she loves you, you've
changed her, you've
changed; she will wear you
like a comma, like
an incomplete thought,
like
a
pause
in her story, and
she will leave you wondering
what
you
did
wrong.
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Comments16
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Oh my. Wonderful intro and an even more stunning end. The metaphors here are exquisite. 