notre dames des fleur
lay in a manger beside the gifts of three
kings as god makes mary his mistress,
whence a devil came. halo no wings.
drip. drip. all over yours
as you make a mistress
make a missionary of you.
save a soul as though it
had laid rocks to rest on a beach
four cut cables from being alive.
how can we tell our stories when the ink from our pens wells under
our eyes and our voices silently struggle to find words not yet stolen
and broken and made into ‘us’ so they can murder what we make of ourselves? “re-writing you I write myself a new.”¹
I rub my eyes with my wrists and
find my sight. A sunset scars the sky
over the river as my eyes dry. I’m fine,
let me lie. Raindrops slap a puddle,
the river took some and I cried the
rest. I’m cold, tired. “It was just the
wind.” The city covers me with the
orange blanket that the Darkness