There are certain patterns on their skin—thin layers of freckles, scattered across them like stars, stars that boil in the night. Some constellations tell tales, ones like the heroes in the sky, but most of the stories are left to their scars; they have patterns too, but not in the same way as stars in the night. No. The patterns of scars are patterns of things done twice, maybe more, things done before they knew
or after.
 
I don’t want to feel like this. But we never do.
 
Hit her again
not once
again
and the moments collapse in on themselves

Winter tree, blackbird among the empty branches: music blossoming.

There once was a witch,
yes, a very clever witch.
She lived in a wagon of chains and bones,
Tapestries of horrified faces trapped in thread hung from the decaying walls.
While her spells could crush lives in a blink, it was her beauty that made your heart sink.
Slit eyes of blood red, hair of woven spider’s silk, skin of molten gold.
Yet with all her power, all her beauty, she only ever said six words.
Be careful what you wish for.
The once was a man,
Yes, a very a desperate man.
Who came to the wagon of chains and bones, seeking the witch of power and beauty.

Calloused hands
(strong hands)
Reach into the dimness
the darkness
Searching
for that which would be me
Had I not already
Been torn apart by the
Lycanthropic fear
that enveloped me a million years ago.
 
Calloused hands
(kind hands)
Cannot find me
No matter how they search,
for I have disappeared
into the inky black
That was so welcoming
once upon a time
but has since become
My prison.
 
Calloused hands
Float before my
Calloused eyes
and I long to reach for them
to touch fingertip
to fingertip

When she was seven
she was Queen of the Mountains.
The village dogs bowed low
as they lay wisps of feathers,
and warm snake eggs at her dusty feet.
Her belly was often empty                                       
But Elena’s eyes were full of promise.
When she was thirteen
a woman came and spoke to her father.
I don’t want to go papa!
I can eat less, she cried.  

Alphabets
 
Carrying the weight of dreams
in swirls of ink, slashes, curves,
the code we learn to decipher
resonant notes for composing
versatile as hand-spun yarn
or ikat-patterned fabric
unique clouds and thumbprints
zephyrs for armchair sailors
ambidextrous acrobats
seagull tracks left on the beach
carved shards of Babylon
fossil strata in canyons
silent records full of sound
vital and strong as water.
 
Talents taken for granted
like water, shape shifters,
subtle as dew, temperate

Father Time, his pistol cocked and loaded, Bites the barrel gently and inhales. Haunted, shaken, sworn at till he's goaded, Father Time, his pistol cocked and loaded, Wonders when and how the world exploded. "Sorry, kid." He shrugs. The baby wails. Father Time, his pistol cocked and loaded, Bites the barrel gently and inhales.