Poems

as the crow flies

in the language I'm not fluent

on my travels I barely pause to listen

but shiny objects remind me of you

shards of glass pieces of metal

trinkets I can hold in my hand

or hide in my pocket

these memories I collect with care

even if it is only to decorate the nest

or remind me of my stutter

I pray that you hear me

when the glass gently scrapes your skin

or the cold of the metal runs down your spine

for those are my words and my wings

offering and sharing

readying myself for one last migration

blood to water

before crimson dissipates
it becomes a chain
chafing at the ankles and the heart

before turning into a raindrop
it becomes pain
raining into the vastness of the sea

in march

someone I loved handed
me a box of darkness

delivered so swiftly that I
underestimated its weight

sharp pointy words wrapped
in religious cuttings

causing my gums
and heart to bleed

what in any god’s name
is the use of a gift like that?

connection lost

I’m not ok but will let time drift
for it’s a healer of sorts

I’m not ok but will let myself drift
for I’m a drifter of sorts

waving the unraveled threads goodbye
traversing the colors changed

for we are all chameleons of sorts