And the Poets Will Be Our Saviors

When the end comes,
and it will,
and the words dry up
with our long-crippled sense of wonder;
when autumn no longer
comes as a relief and
the crocus has forgotten spring;
when empty is a lifestyle and
not an adjective;
when we’ve squandered our
miracles and
abdicated crowns we never
we possessed;
when we’ve sold the last of
the children
and are grimy with shame
and desperation;
when the only thing that stops us
from crucifying ourselves
is that we can’t hold the hammer
and the nail
in the one remaining hand;
when our souls finally begin
keening for what was misplaced, mistaken,
and missed,
but never lost,
we will be reborn of tears instead of

and the poets will be our saviors.


If I could see my way
to another point of view
these green eyes would be
far more sanguine
and shine like Christmas lights
on a dark winter Thursday
as my unasked questions freeze,
a glittering rime,
waiting for another, righter time
I still can’t foresee.

I wonder how you managed
to ensconce yourself so casually
in rooms I thought I’d closed tightly,
forgetting that this is me, and that
I always leave the keys
dangling in the lock
in my absent-mindedness,

in my mindfulness of your absence,
I pretend I am not watching clocks
and counting heartbeats,
lost between the ticks that match that
tugging at the corner of my eye and the
other in my scarlet cheek
and in the quiet that echoes
my beaten heart
I feel the sharp point of you.

The Eye or the Storm

The lightning rod,
air crackles around me.
Is it because power and light
seek same?
Or is it that the gods,
Olympian and otherwise,
are jealous?
From the days when I wore
bows in my hair
to this very breath it has been
and I wonder if my soul
is made of flint
to shower such sparks
as the stones are thrown,
why I am able to rub people
wrong enough that
conflagration is the only
possible outcome,
the smoke merely making
my hide harder,
while they disappear like tinder.