Poetry

  The Medium (in her own voice) I see you. I see within you Around you Beyond you. My hazel eyes Circle round and round Like spirals, vortexes, Into the Beyond. My peacock shawl, My red-striped scarf, Are not simply apparel, Nor coverings for warmth… No, they are interstellar Highways into the Spirit World. The […]

Here comes a princess: lovely, athletic, supple, and lean her strike – like a lightning bolt. Here comes a queen: her dust jacket lined with the salt of her sweat green whiff of labour and bouts of (seemingly contained) panic fog of fatigue, burning lungs and wrists ablaze, bloody knuckles, an ocean of might, the

*** i just turned 29 i’ve met lots of strange people in this life and it seems to me that we’re all aliens, even if we all came from the same place some aliens mourn, while others give thanks for this life i, for example, think an angel first brought me to the old town

From “Early Dreams,” Section 2 *** Don’t call me, father, from blue fog — Go on alone. The forest here is strange: No echo answers, no shadows fall, deafened birds don’t hear each other — — — By the path, a crippled rock kneels like a beggar. Drought sets in. Pine cones crumble. Needles shed.

The Wind I sat on the windowsill till dusk (no one has a cozier spot – perfect for reading, painting nails, and waving to you) I knew though no one had told me but I knew elderly wisdom had gnawed through the apple of my eye like a worm don’t you open the window my

That’s It Where the blood was flowing There the rose is growing. – Lithuanian folk song Death is the failure of breath no, sorry, not the failure, but the end. During these days of Russia’s war in Ukraine I often forget to breathe, I always catch myself in a sigh, trying to breathe more deeply

waking up, complaining yes       once again i won’t start something endless the whole day will bode brevity       the end will have arrived into things so taking anything up won’t be worth it really open your eyes               do you see how the children we could now beget without any

***                          I dream of hunchbacked Tiflis…                                      – Osip Mandelstam Beyond St. Anne’s and the Bernardines, where the liturgical calendar is marked by a family of bells, the monastery is held within sand, and hills, and all that is green. Under high windows: ripples of rills wander

Offering to the Blood Bank        When I was small, my mother explained the colors of the flag to me: yellow is the wheat field in the month that I was born; green is the forest tree in the summer; red is the blood released so she could be here to tell me.        Land

*** I remember the village in the mountain gorge where they sold fluffy sheep fur together with the mauled paws of wolves this is something I just can’t explain   *** he’s from an aquarium or at least he’s lived in one long turning into a plant a stone a fish every day he assimilates