Things left


An oval painting of your blankie

Woven in starlight so that you will not

have to carry the night within you,

the soul-stealing lurking hole


a message written to the lucid terrace

with a trace of red for sweet potency,

the revisioning of the wound,

so that the planetary gods may find you-

bring you back


an ivory horned toad that spells

hope on its nose (worn thin with kisses),

smelling of poplar and smoky sacred

galaxies found inside trees, hands, skies


the swerving sacrum of deer,

that which is dear, beyond belief

threaded with soft cream leather,

weeping a turquoise drop of womb


What comes after this?

A flower must eventually boom,

ladders of being open onto…

other rooms


grief opens

those doors that have no keys,

where lush greening tickles every thought

and high windows of malleable glass

pour balm from the untouched sea

onto the splintering heat

of your long-lost soul.


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