Member Poem

The past nights
words were feathered hermits
that passed
before your quill could grasp them
and tonight is no different;
you have not forgotten
the taste of salt
on fresh cuts
the sound of secretive
moans of a maiden
still naked in her childhood sweater
you only stopped documenting
the miseries that remain
faithful to their vow
to build you a monastery.

~
I haven't held a secret
in so long,
but oh God,
I can still feel the ghosts
on my shoulders
as I pick my way up
to our pretend Olympus
to give my testimo

st. anger, you unkind sir
I've kept these bruises for you
and your incestuous sister ~ anxiety
but I should return them
to you properly
so that you can place them
between your ribs,
where the sound of prayer
flows in your veins.

note to veins:
you are full of skies
but I'll never have kites
for tattoos
to cover track marks
from my childhood.

I used to crave hands
like they were some sort of cathedrals
but now i can't
imagine you ever
lifting me up
in your royal psalms
I'm struggling with it every day
when will I be okay
when will I look at another person
and not try to find you
in their laugh lines
and unshaved face

I want to believe
that I am
something worth holding
something worth saving
& writing songs to
but God knows
I am but acres of drylands
never fluid as the gospel
never a holy place
in your eyes.