Bright Blue 

follow my
lines
curve of my
hips

thin gold silver
light
bounces off
thighs

glitter sheen
sparkle
curve of your
lips

swimming over
underneath
waves in your
eyes

flesh on flesh
feel of
your shoulders
against mine

cut into me
like the sun
through the
blinds

at dawn
you are cool
as morning
dew

hands float
down my
back
bone

lips on my
neck
color of
you

bright bright blue

leave me
at sunrise
but never
alone

bright blue

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Washing Up 

my hands    are dirty

I’ve been

digging

hit bone, hit earth,

hit rock, hit bone
You are gone
deep in Earth’s

core,

away from the

center

of my heart
You are dead
my hands

are dirty

I’ve been

cleaning

up your

blood

from the rug
Red finger tips

like my mother’s

 

lipstick
I thought I was her

then there was

you

consuming me

like a

fresh

catch
I bit the bait

but never bled

Ink and Fire

There’s a poet using the same words as me. Stars are the fireworks that get us going. My predecessors scribble with my hands and paper is on fire. Black ink only. We read ourselves in the reflection. Telepathy. The ancestors speak to me through poetry and love. Whisper. Hear them through the trees. I am the line between two poets, connecting in the midnight sky. We weave together the words in which this life is written. The page is hot and angry. It weeps for me. I wipe tears and ink smudges into oblivion. What did it say? It glimmers into nothing like the stars. My mind forgets where it came from.

At night, hands remember when they grab the pen. I write in flames again.