Tonight I had wanted the moon to be milky
But she came to me with teeth instead
Small and serrated
In a porcelain dish
That girl: she took the sharp young things in her silver hands and left them right on my doorstep, laughing,
So I had to sigh and swallow them down into the dampness of my home with gratitude
(One does not deny the moon her gifts, even when they come with teeth.)
It is the first hot moon of summer and the grass is only beginning to know itself after all the pillage of winter.
It is only timidly blue, in the way that birds sometimes hide a color beneath a brown fold of feather, flirting with themselves, I suppose,
And only small packs of crickets minstrel about, in the moon-basked city of blue blades.
They uncross their long creaking legs, always in a dance with death, and gasp forward into scattered filaments of song.
There is no time for silence under the first hot summer moon,
And the rain strokes down across the old sleeping mountains in harps and waves.
Some of the drops get snagged on the thick lights of old stars as they fall, and are fated to spend eternity in their ancient arms, listening as their creased silver mouths give the history of everything, in the Stoney old language shared by only very old stars and by whales.
The moon is dancing high around the world, all thighs and spirit.
She always laughs when I ask her for a song, and she fills my bones with gifts that don’t know that they’re gifts til much later.
I think, next moon, I will leave out a tea candle and some wine for her. A string of white bells.
I will barter her gladly for stories, for dance, for the soft words of old stars.
I will ask her for a love who speaks my language. For a thimble, and a soap dish of light.
For now I drink the sharp rays in, catching snippets of down-drifting whale song, and their hostage drops of rain, strung like cats-cradle throughout the sky.
I think maybe that’s what makes the net, holding up all the stars.

What is the Thing that calls you through night?
Your soul will never rest
Until you drink it’s light.
this space is carved for you out of First Mother’s bone.
The symbols are steepled and written in stone.
purple where the heart of an animal beat
Now Lost to dust-rhythm, your starcrusted feet
Call you back into the heart-temple-home.
Return to the path
Reopen the tome
Unravel your wrath
And the books in your bones.

Pluck through thickets of stars
And through deep-needled trees
With your arms outstretched like galaxies.
Take up your scepter
fall to your knees
Be humbled again by your own destiny.
Return to the path
Drink deep of the tea.
and found at sea. ((The honey held sky
The new eyes to see.))
The beat
The pulse
Returns to me.

The sun was too much mirror
So I pressed into the wood
Where something sacred pooled in rust and busted diamond shells
From the sun-punched bones of old trees and the quick love songs of dragonflies,
The folds of hot feathers are scratching out a broken psalm.
I feel lost to the paper song of
Book spines hugging open
In painful bursts of light.
And my bones can hardly hold the hooks of stars that burn beneath all things.
I feel the song of blood, and the sudden war of bloom
Chewing quickly through
Some lame grey twine I’d bound them to.
I wonder again
How flowers survive in this world.
With its hot sky hinging on their halos
And the dust- mouths of catacombs sipping at their roots.
We are alone, so I let my lips graze against the sweet pulse of a thistle
Our shared electricity pulling me from filagree to spine.
My toes are folded into the story of a stream
Falling Through the web of dust pretending to hold me.
In a moment, we are bones.
Pages dipped in flaming ink.
Stories told through Starry teeth.
Time worn hands cats-cradle us
in a basket more moonlight than matter.
And I somehow feel safe here, in the dynamite of everything.
And the great human hurt.
I know that the thistle will hold to my kiss, that the stream will fold my stories into her emerald skirt.

Before I coiled into this body
And fell onto the earth,
I was buoyed by a sack of stars
Afloat between my death and birth.
my spirit was a timetorn milk…
the sky was black and folded silk…
I trickled from one dark room to the sweet next, ((Dancing))
From deep sweet musky mystery to the beating drum of breast… .((Alive)).
I cross the threshold into this place of terrible beauty,
And I forget the sharp eternity of my own name.
Everything is gorgeous pain,
And Still my soul remains the same.
As I grow and shed and dance and grieve
The Night
Is my reprieve.
As my skin moves into beautiful decay
alight in my eternity,
All this sameness stays.

When I die
May I unyoke myself
And slip off this tight shoe
may my soul dance up and bloom away,
and my memories fade to blue.
Still, may all my sameness stay
may all be me;
May we be you.

I was born in the untame wild
And the night taught me one thing:
The home I hold is Deep and Deep
Its blue and bold and moonbeam-steeped.
I built it up with sticks and stones
And ocean bones
And heart debris.
And no small force
Could come in here
and break the lamp,
and take the things.
The moon is singing in my ear.
I build my home.
I grow my wings.

the mothers of my mother’s mothers
are rising up from pregnant dirt
hand to hand and breast to breast
in heart and bones,
in pain and hurt:
these women who are stories who are circles,
who are Holy Dirt.
The Ancient words of ancestors are sewn into the hoops of skirts
These people who are poems who are tangled in this web of dreams
they are wrinkled stars that burn in beams.
They are ancient wise who bleed on trees.
They are dead and rot, and birth and breeze.
They are well and healed, and whole and free.
They are all revealed
And sing to me.