The Apple Picker

I was of the trees
Hotly, fully, soot-soaked woman.

Bearing lips and knees
Slow feet sliding across night-cobbled streets
Through silty swamps and constellations;
Starkly naked in the drinking dark.

My blind steps straying off the course,
My lips: not braced for strike,
and saying all of the vulnerable things
To glasses of water, and thieves alike.

A white-hot bud of useless thunder rumpled loudly through me.
I was softly smoldering,
Before I gave birth to me:

I wandered, hips and knees and grace and and map-less, somehow,
Came to this place.


I have so many unwritten letters:
You could pluck me from a winter vine
And intertwine with me.
But if you leave me,
Warmly, fiercely free
I will grow
Into a glowing apple.

Silver Soul Surprise

Hold the bowl of your hips
mouthward, toward the moon

Howl out tenderness (Death is just a room)

Scrape stars from your lips
Sunrise: coming soon.

Dew drops drape your hips
Pull off your cocoon

pray UP your wolf kiss
To the fading night:
Perfect tender lips
Take up luscious light
Sky skims off the black:
Throws off starry shawl
Nothing that you lack,
now you’re standing tall.

Stand up naked now:
Shake this house down right
rippling party-pray
At the fading night

Walk your own footsteps
String your own high-moon
Hold the dome of sky
read the sacred runes.

Thread the needle with this: liquid-love-desire.
Climb your homespun rope,
Let it take you higher.

Crawl back into this:
Wet earth,
mother dune:
whispering fierce and whole,
brown and bathed in moon.

Take your little home: breasts and teeth and bones
Bent armed praying tome
Slide slow back into
Womb-dune torn with tombs

Look death in her eyes;
darkness always looms

Find yourself within:
Body room
house of skin and hips
Tender temple boom
Soul that tears and rips;
Heart that calls and Blooms.

To The Abuser

There will always be a place for you; 

A little song book in the heart, 

With rumpled once-wet pages,

And a song’s half-baked black start.


You can call after me 

All you like, in the night

Like a spry black bird




Like a stone in mid-flight. 


I’ll hold up my face//

My last love cloaks your hammer

(I’ll wear your torn lace

If you speak my stammer).


I meet you again on the path of this spiral.

You will drink from my cup

of sweet indigo ink.

Forgiveness the nectar, 

your plump lips stained pink, 

Again I fill up- still I rise (though I sink).


I alone hold the plaque in my heart marked ‘beloved’

I alone tear the bread and break the cups on the stone

I alone walk the spiral

I alone mend my bones 

Now you count all your fingers and hang up the phone 

I alone walk this torn path, sew the end to the start

(But Bless you for the beating, 

For the beating of my heart). 

This morning I woke with some peace in my bones,

And smiled around at the chorus of souls

All feathered and furled in their small human homes,

tied together and curled up with sinew and stones,

All walking the world and drinking the air

With lungs on loan

And hearts that tear.

All blinking at birth,

All singing death’s moan,

All tethered to earth,

And never alone.

Something In You

Something in you is changed,
Something wild and right:
The part of you that is animal shines
Out wetly
In the dew tonight.
You howl
and drink the midnight sap,
held holy, up, in ancient laps
of ash and elm
and dewy realms//
you rise and sink in cold and inky moon glow
you call out in a voice that only Crow knows.
You unfold your head and dance,
entranced with your own shadows.


The Shadow, The Heart, And The Void.

My body speaks to me in dialogues of pain.

She is showing me
Where there are cracks in my sacred temple
She is showing me the memories of how they chiseled in
To the shadowy nooks
And were lost (but always there)

below sea level.

My body reaches up to me ‘You are the librarian of this castle.
You sweep the dust, and make neat all the nooks,
But you never stoop to see the words torn into the inner eyelids of the stones.
You wash the walls but you never read the graffiti.’
She says ‘Here is where you hurt.’
And here.
These are the holes you need to know,
But don’t deny them,
Because they let the moonlight in
And little moon-made flowers grow out of the cracks and crags the light seeks with its nimble silver fingers.

Make of the holes an altar.
Pour a salty scream or two into it, and then build the space up anew.
Find the most jagged places and press your lips against them until the skin gives way and when you see the blood, admire it for its color and the way it catches the light.

Carry a bowl to catch your tears in and love them all like little wishes dancing out into the great spiral
Of the night.
All the edges give you so much space
For flowers, and stars, and all the things of magic.
Keep these broken walls, but keep them neat and kind and clean
Sweep the dust and listen to her stories.

Call out to the night and finally agree:
We are dark when we are in shadow, except for when we dance.
The broken places are all welcome to dwell among the books and all the candles of the temple.
We will write them new stories and release this redblue fire out into the bundle of the sky.

Our doors will stay kindly cracked and the windows of our eyes stay open

But we will never
Razor sharp people

To dance within our pink hallways