self destruct

nothing is truly sacred here; nothing is truly profane
we turn magpies into martyrs and our fresh carrion idols
glisten in the lamplight like beads of sweat upon your
forehead–even my jocular insufficiencies seem like they
could be used to wipe your pedestal, that marbled glass
that bears witness to the tedium of the day–were it only
for the irises in my hands, your eyes, i could give them
up to the unappeasable gods and pray for blood to water
the soil that will eventually cradle me as softly as the
woman who birthed me did, or at least must have, or at
least–maybe not. my skin turns to parchment that coils
in your hand like origami by any other name, and the
cranes fly into your mouth like a building, shattered.


bathtub sonnet

still tonight she writes with words in water
a curl of blood as lonely as a soliloquy; even
shadow bends away from her light that is more
like a flicker of fiber optics rather than some
constant glow–she lifts lidless eyes to the moon
and asks for guidance but tonight the sky is full
of faraway answers that stray into questions dark
as eyelashes and full as the bathtub she stands
in, and each time she bends to scrub her skin
the water sinks into the drain and back again
where the starkness of a candle flame betrays
her in its hurricane lamp–she is left between
a memory and a moment, an evaporating stare,
a graceless hand and a fistful of air.