***
One tiny step,

one little slip, to fall, to fail, 
flailing, fragile, frail frame, 
a shattered sense, a souvenir 
of shattered bone.

***
(This poem was published in my book, "Memory is that raccoon")A broken jar

to store the body of loss,
the coffee laced with sugar and shock,
the wrenched wild wings,
dried blood tears of sunsets past,
to leak the waning fading blue,
to hold what’s left of you.

***
What Has Passed

What has ended my desire
to do when I’m too weak, to be what I am not?
Ritual is writing through the pain.
I know that I don’t know to stop until my body shatters.
The instruments of self-deception disappear
as sun-kissed skin slips into velvet darkened dress.
There is space, there is an honest sweetness in the bitter.

***
(This poem was published on Medusa's Kitchen, and was inspired by…