With a twist
and a heave,
I have the moon
back between
my legs;

we are
airborne and
fancy-free.

It’s too quiet.
I’m in a wrinkled shirt.
I can’t find anything funny
in how the wind has turned away from me.
My jaw cracks, often.
I yawn to fight a panic attack.
Wanting arms around me becomes
too large a goal.
I throw messages to the weeds.
There’s no response.

The Empty calls
to me, with its alluring
dark, blank comfort
but I am stuffed –
with red and taste and laughter
and unbidden sobbing
and you,
which is perfect really,
and Full.

I pretended
the cracks
could only be breached
by machete;

something with too many teeth
close on my heels,
the glass building ahead
a place of safety
(since souls don’t count).

When I walked in
composed but a little ruffled,
men in suits looked at me sideways
not realizing how far I voyaged
to get here.

Ignoring the cool strummer,
tickle the foamy ridge
until the sun bleeds into water
-like the first days.

Don’t hesitate to open your eyes
during heavy breeding-
it’s the nature of the beak
to want to peer inside a fish
for all the answers of the ocean.

Inside… love, little chicks, love,
like the sandy floor that moves beneath,
like the spotted flickers of night
like home
like a summer song
like a full belly
like bodies’ feathered rest.

Come closer to the edge,
where wandering squawks
sound like an aural manna.