Panic returns at two in the afternoon.
My lover reminds me that my eyes
are gray when I am sad:
storms on a sea.
The words fall deep into the hole I occupy.
I remind him that I have crossed every ocean
to arrive here. I am shivering
as if dripping and wet. Continue reading
What tides surge in your chest, moving you?
You who try to hold all of me in your arms
when I contain the entire moon. Continue reading
I used to believe there was bad in my groin.
It was proof of a boy’s black hand,
forcing my untouched open.
I used stiff stitches, canvas thread,
salve for my fire’s fits. Continue reading