Blood blossoms burst
forth in war zones
as roots stretch deep.
I feel them when we fight
and I want to burn your tongue
black with hot rock
rather than hear
words opposing mine;
engorged roots strike through limbs—
my hand, your face.
Thank you to the editors of Hard Love for first publishing this poem.
If Not for Silence
In their mad Sufi dance words whirl off tongues
loose as hot snakes as we struggle to speak with rudiments—
mostly we quarrel, walk away, but sometimes manage
to weave them like a lovers’ embrace beneath that open-voweled moon,
which vacillates between the startled suck of air through pursed lips
and a night so long that, shy, she slips beyond the sun’s unerring watch.
Words electrify nerves till air feels like a panther lapping our luminous skin,
but it is silence that exposes our fiery hearts to serpentine tongues,
silence that would strip our marrow if not for the pulsing muteness
of flesh kneading flesh, of snakes and stars and moon-shackled seas.
Thank you to the editors of Hot Flashes 2 for first publishing this poem.