The Agonist Journal

Winter Lament

grief isn’t rational—
that’s why we celebrate births—
when everyone dies

but firebrand wolves
           ivy robed trees,

now there is snow
       on my illicit boots,
while rage burns
melting the majestic
      winter vine.

Wish You Were Here

this neglected thing—
a sticky confection
a catatonic echo
a shadow perverted
a sizzling keepsake—

in the mortuary
will no man offer water?

Dirty Love

as I am
a woman made of clay
or fog or sky gouging
the formation of the sun
meat is strange
like kisses uncensored
harnessing the greys
searching for the perfect blues
buried deep
meeting your layered words
a gleaming knuckle
hunting for pulsing fabric
once celestial
photographing the
monkey on a stick
the sounds we will not hear
the sights we cannot see

guilt and fear share a succulent rhythm
waiting      for   the space
diaphanous diversion
in and of your
delayed gratification
feel it thicken and sicken