The whales do not know that they are small, click-whistle hunting in cerebrospinal darkness. Deep down, pressure heavy under the fly-twitch ends of the horse’s tail, world-tree cuttings root in rich waters. Chase fish, flickering pain like sparks, flashing even without light. The pod eat densely. Debris falls, bubbles ascend.
Reversed: Queen of Cups, food as medicine Notice knots in the narrative, “many myths end with the promise that whoever hears them will be healed of sickness” Not forgotten: old promises, snake oil sold as medicine Mother of Cups in the North, we have missed the medicine of your narrative {serpents need to eat} […]
there was a time when i, viciously in love with you, started believing that there was a being, a living conductor of our feelings, like a—a fairy, i suppose, winged, tiny, invisible to the human eye but wondrously fast and glittering, and she, yes, she carried each warm thought you had about me to me, […]
When the blood and the hate in the eyes of your foes became too much, when the shine of blades became dulled in the dust, when the opening between snarled bodies desperate for survival offered, you fled— and the buruburu ate. It dined upon the shakes in your legs as you forded the wide river. […]
i captured the mood that you let go it flew up like a kite breached the atmosphere and dove into outer space like it was trying to escape all bodies— human and planetary i was floating along in my EVA suit, pressurized, detached, untethered the frayed ends of my harness intimating the moment i didn’t […]
I work to put away these daggernails of mine and carve off each stain of the hurt, each line of the black love that turned my burnished skin to furs to sweat in, to wear as uniform’d curse— I won’t lie, I wake up snarling. I want to rend what turned me so, I want […]
Someday, you will learn that life is mapped by misadventures and heartbreak, unruly as the sea, arranged and rearranged in waves, until everything is salt and sand. Someday, someone you marked as safe will call the witch out of your bones, and leave you full of burning, your mouth tasting like ash, the blessing of […]
I am angry with myself for wanting for needing for being a heliotrope who turns to the sun, believing it to be weakness, an admission of failure, as if the blood that the light creates does not thrum through my veins. I am angry with myself for being the vine, the ivy, the leaf— why […]