A humming runs down dry cracks in the paper’s skin and hoping it’s braille I spread my fingers thin, thumbing for eye sockets, nostrils, follicle
In Spanish, “to birth” is translated as “dar a luz.” How poetic—to give someone light, a slice of sun as they exit mother’s earth. At
Pensively promenaded I, as impetuous as a poet, To accumulate few jocund inkling on dusk. For sure, not as a bard, But as a novice
towards the end of it, my grandma believed she was a girl again: raw in the scab, a child pig-tailed in the Midwest pre-destiny that
Power crackles through my tangles. My hairbrush falls into three pieces when I run it through my hair since my new grays are actually spears.
She wants to be Cruella, disintegrating into a glamorous obsession, lost but only slightly crazed. She hasn’t been abandoned in the woods and these aren’t
A 21-Step Guide to Self-Love you broke my heart so you should give me yours -Naomi Sharon filter the petrichor
Salt Kingdom, After the Fever Morning fractures across the flats: amber poured into every hollow. Reeds stand blackened and fragile, their husks whispering to wind.
Prairie Psalm with Train in the Distance Dusk lowers its copper basin over the blackland fields. Mesquite breath rises: green, resinous; and somewhere rain is
patienting it will never be an obsolete gerund/ living/ this whatever it is/ it’s breathing a run-on sentence far more than just labeling/ we are