Night is Not a Cradle
Grabbing wind in my fist,
I hear scratching in the closet
at midnight. I pray this is a dream,
a nightmare that won’t follow
me into dawn.
Warrior or Dragon Lady?
My babysitter let me smoke
her cigarette when I was seven.
The ashy flavor of wet paper
and rubbery sponge rolled
over my tongue, filled
my mouth, my lungs.
Gripping the tree beside me,
its rough bark puncturing my palms,
I pitched to the ground, spitting.
I glimpsed grass blades –
each one perfect and separate.
Surprised by the size of the world,
I found sehnsucht in every corner,
on every coast. I wake with tears
on my face, scratching, scratching
in the back of my brain.
What Cannot Be Changed
Even with Samhain closing in,
there’s no fog or mist
that divides the living and the dead.
I’m already a ghost –
a brief blur you might remember.
No halo around the hunter’s moon
where clouds hover then shrug
and move on. Maples and oaks shuffle
what’s left of their leathered leaves,
bear the crow as he balances
between midnight and morning.