molt

I stop; look back.
Hand over my eyes to block the
manic light,
and I see
salt pillars.

They glower, vaguely
outlined with my own face.
I’ve peeled their chalky skins for years.

And I try
not to catch their eyes –
Midas, Medusa,
basilisk, Balor.

It’s a fix.
I’m ripped off and stacked up and left out here.
A new me moves forward,
and I’m frozen in the reflection.

What will she be

after the last peel;
just salt?

brute

I thought I might give it a name.

It was sweet and it played; it was tame.
The West told me, why not? Go ahead.
But the East shook her dazzling head,
and said:

If you give that thing a word,
you’ll teach it hate and fear, I’ve heard.
It tends to hoard and make a lord
of names in cages just like birds.
It’ll think its word is better
than all other ones, I swear.
It’ll label you and know
your label’s different. It’ll care.

I hate to even think – but
it could learn its right from wrong.
Do not name it, please, I beg you.

So, I taught to it a song.

privilege

Sitting, pretty, on the edge of our aphelion,
eating unseen forces like curds and whey.
In goes a galaxy, rolling underneath my tongue,
shrieking and dissolving fast; a tasty display.
Wash it down celestially with pure electron water.
Knife into dark energy, a savory filet.
Suck deep on a sour eclipse and giggle at the stir,
dip candied kings in quasar oil,
you want this one?
I’ll trade.

After we’re full,
we contemplate beginnings and the end;
I’ll fold today like a receipt,
don’t need that in my head.

hatch

Your life is an egg.
Push on the colors in your lenses,
just watch;
they’ll crack,
fall like walls.
Everything that’s ever happened to you is yolk,
fluid firming into feathers;
feel them bristle when you see
an especially interesting tree
and know that it’s more real
than you were ever meant to be.
Don’t be afraid.
One day we’ll leave our starless,
sharkless cocoons,
break through
our amniotic rooms
to join
a new parade.