Brenda Warren
I arrange roses in a Mason jar
That smells of strawberry jam.
A throat full of birds seizing
The songs caged in my heart.
I will always remember
My first suicide and how I failed
Even to summon death.
–
I wipe the mud from my boots.
The crocuses jitter in the breeze
A shamanic fervor, a crossroads
Whenever I see the color blue
I unravel my girth and head south.
The shine of one derelict star
Promising to encompass everything.
–
Owls skulk in the dead of night
Soundless, invasive, their talons
Set like thorns into a spastic frame.
I thread moonlight
Through my xenophobic veins
An inferential lobotomy
A triumph of photons over provisionals.
mindlovemisery 