The troll has eaten the princess.
She crawled and jabbed sticks into crannies,
silk rustling skirts hiked to her knees.
She peered into the blank space beneath the bridge
that bristled with the smells of dank water and pitted stone.
Tadpoles wiggled the dull black of old bark.
It was exciting, no more needles grinding into linen
stitching petulant posies, drooping lilies.
After awhile dancing balls drone, waltzes spin like irritating children tops,
the kissing of hands chafe.
So she dropped to her knees, the mud supple against her hands.
It was exciting being eaten.
Sharp moss scabbed teeth, hooked fingernails
the yellow of dead sunflowers
piercing, digging into her porcelain flesh.
Cracks spread threaded with blood.
She simply mewed.
But now something fiercely blooms inside the troll's stomach
until the day he will split apart and she emerges to eat them all.
The Music of Life, Death, and AfterThe music I hear is never playing, but always there.
A haunting wind, howling like a beast.
A terrible thump, heavy beats in the night.
A delicate sharp noise, that hangs in the air.
I hear this music over and over.
In birth, it was my cry, the slap on my back, and the cut of the cord.
In death, it was the broken window, the footsteps in the night, and the knife.
And after, it was the music I heard going six feet under, the first mound of falling dirt, and the shovel hitting the last.
Southern Comfort (Synesthesia)It was dark with howling winds
and only two were left alive
huddled in a cave -
they didn't weigh much.
They were feeble, sleight
spiders creeping out in odd directions.
As if on strings, the weaker reached,
creaked in toward his pockets like a tree,
and - popping out a rusted loaf of bread -
loomed into the feel-space of his friend.
He kissed their cheek and whispered
as he set the morsel by their side,
"I couldn't bear to watch you fade to bones."
Then they began to weep, and tangle -
spiders crumpled up in odd directions.
A Farewell to the Mosquito that Eats at My Heart1. Do svidanya
Underbrush sprouts only in spring but I have felt in my heart
familiar new-bud prickles, and feared your hemlock heart.
It is still winter, dear who will only ever be a fleeting deer.
In hunting-season, you were a fleet and antler-crowned hart.
Winter is another kind of desert, white like feathers, not for
weddings—tree-boned fingers make only cages for hearts.
I try to imagine snow as dandelion tufts, try to picture you
like linden blooms upon my eyelashes, upon my muddy heart.
But neither of us is so gentle, deer, and it is the deadly winter
that will poison us, that white-washes our fleet-footed hearts.
Pretty is no freckled face like marshes, no browned body.
It is a winter, a desert, the smoothness of your iced heart.
Deer, you are tail-turned, pale and too beautiful for summer,
for my brown and bumpy marshlands, and my over-full heart.
The old queen anne’s lace of my summers is brittle and brown,
fit neither for a bouquet nor for your crown