Sometimes we can’t write.
Sometimes poetry isn’t birthed all at once.
Sometimes you get hurt making it.

Every lyric has a place on my wrist.
every rhyme sounds like a clock ticking,
every stanza passes another tearing page undone with all the scribbles that will 
never be good enough. 

This is what happens when your poetry 
turns into suicide notes. 

Don’t you know people are 
having midlife crises earlier and earlier 
because now
people live longer, 
because now
people are dying sooner. 

Because midlife isn’t 40 for everyone.

Because teen girls are being forced 
to have babies before they can 
legally drink. 

Because now they look at their wrists 
and count the days and count the children 
and count hurt they can’t say with closed mouths. 

Because we can’t speak,
we write.

But sometimes it’s hard to be quiet. 

From my hands, 
inky mountains rise.
Made of earth,
giving drifting seeds
a place to grow.
Grow they do and
the black mountains
drink down the flowers.
Worthy of color at last.
From my hands,
inky oceans make
my body more poetry
than not.
 

For Luchie Noce on his first birthday <3

Listen to the crickets,
the triad of stroller wheels
posing against the small stones
and big stones.

The bees are humming in flowers,
the wind is so soft you can hear
every bird on its branch,
every quiet stone in its road bed.

The pollen and seeds of summer
are circling your lungs,
the lush meadows are
tenderly waving,
held up by the uproar of beauty
and calm...

The sky is clear for you today.
The soil between our bodies
is alive and moving,
pressured by every being
on this earth.

Thank you for horses that
imprint beaches and fields.
Thank you for pebbles in gardens...
every pebble... in every garden.
Thank you for the stars and
the sacred darkness that is
drawn up between them.
Thank you for these hands that gather
and hold and release and find.

I

I took the sunset and made it your warpaint. 
Insecurity peeling back the edges of your lips
and sneaking a smile in.

In my old home...
I had a drawer,
I called it "the death drawer".
But it asked me to call it "Lina".

Lina is full of gathered dragonfly wings,
because when death gently lifts my soul,
I want to rise on my own wings.

And now ... in my new home,
I feel the wings struggling in their cage,
as if they too knew that they would be
of use sooner rather than later.

II

The first time I saw
the geese spin their shadows
and rise past the falling snow,
I thought:
If I could have one feather,
I will make it through this day.

I did not expect the whole, living,
but broken bird to fall at my feet.

I took no feathers
and buried it in the lining
between heart and lung.

III

Yes, I'm a witch.
Let me clear some things up,

No, I don't practice voodoo.
No, I don't wear a pointy black hat.
No, I don't curse anyone, I only bless.
No I'm not evil.
No, I'm not Goth or hippie, don't categorize me.
No, I can't fly on a broomstick, no one can.
No, I don't worship Satan, I worship life and creation. 
No, I don't sacrifice animals, I just told you I worship life.
No, I'm not in a cult.
No, I can't make things float.
No, the pentacle and pentagram are NOT signs of Satan.

Witches aren't the same as gypsies,
men can be witches too,
witches do NOT summon demons,
witchcraft is not the same as paganism and/or Wicca,
witches don't possess people OR levitate.
witches are human,
witches can dress in whatever they want, not just black,
witchcraft IS a religious practice,
Wicca, paganism and witchcraft are all different than satanism.
 

100 years of being able to vote
and nothing ever changes. 
Women STILL aren't free to be present in their bodies.
Free to choose what their body is capable of
and to not be shamed for it's shape and size.
Did you ever consider looking at the density
of our hearts instead of our thighs and chests?
I'm sorry... am I being too loud?
Should I be quieter?
Am I distracting you?

Sorry my skirt is too short,
sorry my mom breastfed my baby sister in public,
sorry our baby is crying because shes hungry,
sorry I wore a crop-top to school,
sorry my clothes matter more to you than my education,
sorry its OUR fault for being cat-called,
sorry it's our fault for not listening,
sorry I was walking alone at night,
sorry I'm scared to walk anywhere now,
sorry I was talking back,
sorry I didn't chirp on command,
sorry I'm so distracting,
sorry I'm not distracting enough,

Raise your words, not your voice.

Sometimes it’s hard to listen to yourself,
sometimes it’s hard to hear your voice
above the screaming masses.

Just take a moment,
or as many as you need,
to be quiet.

We are all bright.

Don't shout or whisper,
just hang your arms by your sides,
breathe.

Open your fists,
spread your fingers 
and hold out your palms.

Someone needs a hand,
you have two hands.

You love life,
help life start to grow again.

Rain not thunder helps the flowers grow. 

We are all bright.

Sometimes
the stars watch earth,
they look for patterns of people.
They love when all the people
gather around each other to be
sad and angry and oppressed.

They feel the love pulsing
from galexies away.

Be kind, we are all bright.
 

The world is temporarily closed,
But we're starving...
Sorry for the inconvenience
But my mother is going into labor!
Please come back later!
But what if we can't wait?
Sorry, rules are rules.
But our home has flooded.
Check next door, they might be open.
But we're just been robbed and had a gun against our heads.
We're closing now,
But –
sorry we couldn't have been of assistance,
now go.

Sometimes
when I hurt,
I see flowers and stars.

Flowers are stars of the earth,
bright lights in meadows,
the stars are the flowers of the sky.

And here we are,
strung in-between the two.

When I hurt,
I take as many moments as I need,
to let down my hair and let down my tears
and let down myself.

And when the moments are full,
I tie back my hair, tie back my worries
and look to the sky.

And then to the meadows.

A hush falling from my lips like birds
that get too close to the sun.

You will ask yourself who you are
and yourself will not answer
so you figure you already know.

Sometimes I get headaches,
but headaches are like hurricanes.

After the storm passes,
you lay yourself out in the wreckage
and feel the winds of change
tugging at your hands.

With everything lying broken,

I

The ocean will put salt in your eyes,
and likewise, your eyes give the sea its salt.

And perhaps in case of emergency
you will be the ocean itself.
Look to your corners.
Lap on shores, pull up shells.
Spray on slippery rocks,
pierce the air with many rainbows.

II

Let your tongue return to
the damaged roof of your mouth.

The raw ribs, hollow under your taste buds.
Ink drips from the open cracks.
Widening the hole, I warn,
only lets more light in.
Light silts though your wounds,
you wonder if your body still feels
beautiful there.

Now drop your tongue,
and watch as it crawls back up the ridge of your jaw
and assesses the chaos the world has created
in it's absence.

III

In the windowed room,
light makes a shadow of life.

Pushing at the doorframe,
you soak into the wood and watch as