Jun 21
Quella's picture

I, Here

I am here in this world and laughter sounds like a bird cry.
I am traversing the stones
my younger soles once lay bare,
slowly, deeply inhaling the pine bows
I curled upon as a child, the pine
I once asked to hold my sleeping frame.
It is here, I think,
that I can see the sky most clearly. 
Each sunset and foggy rise lifts from within me peels of laughter
or the soft barefoot lilt
that expresses something much the same. 

I do not know how the life within me flutters, 
but I would think it to be much like the birds do.
Like the sea does.
Like the sun's redness bleeds into the sky,
so too do I bleed.
Like the seasons 
run into each other seamlessly,
so too do I run through this life,
this day, 
this hour,
holding and held,
and the pine and the sleeping child,
and the awakened and the asleep,
and the joyous laughter
that tells me I am 
these things,
Feb 16
Quella's picture


You do not have to be grown,
body aged and limbs long but furled to the world
Your eyes do not have to see in any colors
dimmer than the brightest sunset
And your body does not have to slow 
down to mimic the other grown lives
that teem around yours.
You do not have to kiss the sweet child inside you
goodnight as you tuck her beneath your wing
If you listen, she will tell you that those wings
were hers once
and still are, 
and after all, 
she knows how best to fly them. 
Dec 16
Quella's picture


I have been called a rainstorm.
I fall and make noise 
and want to touch
the whole entire world.
I want to feel every inch of life
that crowds inside this atmosphere 
hunched or spread out
winged or asleep.
I want to open rivers in the earth
and flood cities so that streetlights 
know what it’s like to glow underwater,
to flicker.
I want to seep
into everything I see 
and when I try,
when I do this,
when I feel such depth,
I am overcome with the kind of
despair and wonder 
that only the loudest storms can harbor.

Nov 29
Quella's picture

Living to

I am living
to see the clouds from the window of a plane
to feel light stream through my mother’s skin as I am held
and in an instant know what god is
To hold my father's arms as I held the branches of trees I climbed in childhood
trees who’s breath opened my lungs
and held them open like doors to bursts of wind and snow.
I am living to feel the heat of the sun through a window pane
and watch the dust that falls before it.
To watch that world of tiny things
and marvel at the lives mine is among.
I am living to drink the stories of lives already lived,
to listen through a cord to a man asking to be remembered,
a man waiting to pass through graffitied gates, his love still on the ground.
I am living to hear these stories from atop my kitchen counter in a nine-year-old body 
and to wonder whether death is a womb as well,
Nov 25
Quella's picture


When I become the sky
I will try to warm the world.
My body will curl across each plain,
Warm like a sun-soaked garment left to dry.
I will watch the rising and falling of the planet’s chest,
Mothering its sweet fragility
and rocking back and forth
back and forth
singing softly and praying
for the endless wintering of the world
to fall away like a sheet
Nov 12
Quella's picture

The Pendulum

When I forget how to feel, it happens slowly.
Following months of wonder, optimism, health,
too-big thoughts, overwhelming gratitude, and
falling asleep farther and farther from my body, 
I stray so far from feeling at home in this world
on this earth
that I become suspended for an instant in pendulum swing,
and fall back in the other direction,
no longer floating.

When I forget how to feel, how to feel at home in my body, 
a little shadow creeps over my skin,
saying look.
This is how to feel pain
this is how to feel empty
this is how to shrink until people ask 

are you living?
Let me feed you?
what does breathing feel like
from inside that frame?

And I say no it's okay
I think
I exist again now

and their eyes become sad
and disbelieving
Sep 09
Quella's picture

let me

When your hands are cold,
do not shiver at the sink
and let them tremble,
a fledgling heartbeat between bloodless hands
and an icy stream

Your mother will still want to hold you
even if you are warm.

Even if you do not climb mountains,
you will be worthy of the sun that rises there,
every hue that glows
every breath,
and warm ray that reaches out, saying
-let me hold you
Aug 08
poem 0 comments challenge: Form
Quella's picture

This love is

I think that this love
is the way you
are the laughter at the end of my sentence,
                                                        my optimism.
This love
  is the stars I gave you to hang on your wall
for when your world is dark enough to make you

w o n d e r  


         l  e  a  v  i  n  g,

  when I am not there,
because I am never
because I am    not
the the kind of light you look for when you're scared.

I was the one who broke into your arms, who you
 h a d   t o   h o l d.
  I think that this love
is a mirror of the love you feel for
     a strange, unnamed, unarmed, precious warmth
 wrapped in words that fold
under the
                 of voice
and lives we both wish we could live,
the different lives, the distance that feels like e m p t i ness.
Aug 08
poem 1 comment challenge: Do
Quella's picture

To Do:

I still have to clean my mints out of your car.
They spilled last week, and although the clouds of white dust looked like snow at first, 
menthol melts into the leather seats when you turn on the heat
and you said the smell makes you cold. 
I have to feed the dog, too,
and unload the dishwasher
but those things have become so habitual that
they tend to fall off of my list
like orange leaves
unless the list looks too barren
and I add them to make it look full.
We're out of milk 
and honey
and the refrigerator keeps getting too cold
and freezing the food in the back
as if it's plastic insides are a whole world,
vast enough to hold seasons. 
I have to fall in love.
and send a letter to New York,
and remember to look at the moon
and the stars
and the cracks in the street
but grocery shopping comes first
and my bed has to be made so that 
when love comes,
Aug 04
Quella's picture

What I have been

I was a wolf once-
the moon was my sky
and my claws were the coals from a traveler's fire.

I met the sun once-a very nice man-
whose bones were the rays
that combed light through my hair.

All I have been
is a change in the waves,
my hands grazed the bone,
now they beg to feel sun
and all I will be is the waves in the sea
that cradle the broken, the cold, the lonely.

I found a god, I think, 
once in her arms,
the walls bore the gray
of a cold winter dawn.

All of the water
rushed out of my heart
and all of my mountains
fell into their earth.

How did you hold me,
my mother, my shrine,
so that I would open
without running dry?

I was the sea once
but now I'm just air
and all I have been is
the breath that quells fear.