i cling to him 
like an empty bottle
i've desperately wished into, 
washing away and
shoring up on sharp sand, 
lighthouse flinging and flinging into the dark,
i fling and fling from the cliff,
crash and crash to the waves,
trying to turn the tides 
time and time again,
asking the moon, cursing at you,
why won't you help me?
why won't you save me?
i'm chafed and i'm blistered,
waterlogged yet dog-paddling on,
eyeing any island that'll let me land,
just touch my toe to sand, 
before the waves grab me again

i cling to him 
like i have sea legs, like i'm some
sea creature searching for 
seashells shining in shallows 
but he's no perfect pearl, no,
not like the one who haunts my empty beaches,
ghostly opal in
sand-swept mirages,
always i'm squinting for the oasis,
always in salt water stasis

i cling to him,
knowing he is no life raft.
knowing i can never touch him honestly.
knowing i have had oars of my own,
all this time.
and it is only once that thought crystallizes into quartz

that i can pull myself into 
the hull and haul

i cling to my oars
steadily steering 
myself eastward

i like to think that
the furthest away you are 
is the other side of this
mirrored life,
dear one,
where, from our deep roots, we may cast 
our love in ripples,
our thank-yous in echos,
across the thin veil,
darling,
not knowing what form it may take
on your side,
but knowing we'll know it, 
sweetheart,
because we look for each other in 
the folds and unfurling
of the world. 
which is why 

i know 
that white bird lapping the morning light is you
i know 
your breath is the breeze where you walked
i know 
the crows call your well-wishes
i know
those jade stones to be your spring green eyes,
softening with time
i know 
you sent the milky rose to catch my eye,
angel wings, yours if anyone would have them, floating down to 
the dew-dropped grass we call home
i know 
two butterflies dance above the blue wildflowers because
we planted them together 
that day in late winter
i know
you are still with me
god or not, 
heaven or sky,
proof or trust,

i don't have to know
where, exactly,
you are 
because i know
exactly 
where you are,
my dear soulmate,
i love you

the winter night welcomes me
by clear, cold flame
into her clear, cold pool
of dark, shimmering jewels

it is here where

fairies might skate
in their ice lace dresses

sky is scraped
with clear white messages

and there, behind 
the woodsmoke's passage

shines light, milky porcelain saucer,
hoots quiet, the night's soft-winged daughter 

as gently as round white petals of snow
float to ripple silent, 
silently, on the calm, cool lake,

i take my silver clock hands 
and move them 
imperceptibly

as the badger sets, 
as the fox foot steps, 

hushed, now, for no one knows
our thin irises, no one knows 
this silence is— 


slipping on my silk nightgown 

of pale blue moonlight, 

i am washed clean

the giant sequoia is not bulletproof,
no, but are bullets even in the realm of
ancient beings?

of elders who 
were here before us &
our specific trait of fear,
of children who will be here long after?

tell me, 
what use are bullets to each other's 
tender skin?

answer me,
why would you use a saw
on silk?

the thing about being alive is
we bleed
the thing about being soft is
we can grow back 
like the dewdrop buds on sister sequoia's fingertips

unlike their steel armour:
once it shatters, it shatters, and 
even iron can alchemise 

they despise our
sensitive roots, 
our persistent disputes, but
given time, we can
burst the chan link, 
crack the concrete, 
us patient perserverers,
us gentle giants

so slot your silencers,
even as you tremble

i know you're afraid,
know that's okay

know at any time you can 
sheath your sword,
bury your bayonet,

know 
that our vulnerability 
is not something to harden,
but to layer and layer,
like quilts over blankets over sheets,
you're never too old to be tucked in

know we are made strong by the sinews of sensitivity,
that at the end of the day,
since the beginning of time,
we have always been made of the same, shimmering stardust,
growing back again & again,

and that is why there is no use for bullets

i kneel
at the universe's 
rippling, star-stitched hem,
and ask,
in my quiet voice,
"will it all turn out alright?"

the universe
looks at me
& smiles 

take to the shears why don’t you,

shred the threads that we linked round our wrists,

come at me with fists, just

don’t let these flowers wither

when we planted them together 

uproot them if you will, let me

count the bleached petals ‘til “loves me not,”

forget-me-nots

not in your neck of the woods, so

burn the books

you margin-filled for me, just

don’t let them sit on your shelf

if i shall never read the words you wrote yourself, 

selfish, i suppose you’ve always been,

jumped ship when it wasn’t sinking in the shallow sea, you

swam for land never on the map,

vast and uninhabited and i guess you always said

you’d be fine on an island all on your own.

you know,

the ball is getting dusty in your court so

why don’t you puncture it

with your sharp, sheathed knives

drawing more blood unwielded

than if you aimed them for my back

back then, as friends,

even across continents, you’d call me,

now “do not disturb” is default,

felling telephone poles, you

went back in time to

before letters were penned,

before smoke signals sent,

before any words were uttered

out of a primal mouth

just so you could never have met me.

and you’re fine with it all,

all the snowstorm silence,

unfought fights and

fences white,

right?

it’s an unsolved mystery

if there was ever even a crime scene,

have you seen

who you thought of as your sister,

have you missed her, lost for

two hundred and thirteen days?

these days,

i feel poised with poison on the tip of my arrowhead,

i never said you couldn’t be honest, but honestly

i’m tired of waiting for you to be,

can’t you see that i’m angry,

why won’t you say that you hate me?

i don’t want you to make me hurl things at your ears that i’ll regret, i don’t

want you to make me act in a way i can’t defend, i don’t

want you to make me so whatever this is, spill your bandit’s bag of all you’ve stolen from me already, i don’t want

to keep missing you

so take to the shears, just

please don’t

throw away whatever’s left of our friendship bracelets

but let’s face it:

you don’t know what i’m doing,

where i am,

or that my matching locket is still in my pocket

you don’t know that i’m flaming with fury,

the gasoline of our sacred grove, you’re

letting it burn me instead,

but now i finally know

you’re not making me do anything, so

i douse the fire,

flickering,

it goes out,

ashes nourishing

cold and compacted,

i use the coal to

carve these words,

then i kneel and

i bury them

because i know you’ll never read this.

my bearskin cloak is

more like a porcupine’s

with all its 

arrows, there’s

clogged mud from

unintended encounters with

the ground, there’s

the stitches of someone who

doesn’t know how to sew,

the provisions of someone who

doesn’t know how to survive in the wild,

the thoughts of someone who

forgets they can learn.

i’ve had it wrapped around me

since autumn, when

the trees shed their gloves &

the night shut its gates.

it’s kept me from

the cold,

it’s kept me

dry

through winter, through travels down

the path, that path of

uneven stones &

grabbing brambles,

it is not yet

the season for berries.

through the

thickets, through the

thunderstorms

clambering cliffsides,

i stay away from

the brook & its

trembling waters, always moving along,

along the way,

the moon waxes

yet i am

in the

same place

every night.

the cloak has gotten

heavier

& heavier

catching on thorns, dragging

in dirt

my steps have

slowed

long ago

i was surefooted,

but now my knees

buckle, my back

bends

under its weighty

weight.

so when the frost melted,

other travellers let theirs slip

to the grass,

chrysalis cracking, ice breaking, berries bursting

they stepped lightly into spring, snowdrops warming

the ground beneath their smooth, bare feet.

i took mine off, too

& carried it,

i carry it,

even though it’s summer now, too warm for cloaks

even though strength has left me

holding what is now snarling, struggling to escape,

fraying on my ribcage, creeping up my throat, the cloak

returning

to the being it always was.

i look around as though for help,

the path misty,

missing familiar roads, i

watch the light dancing through the birch,

dancing where i used to,

little girl chanting, “i do believe in fairies, i do, i do”

yet i cannot seem to

move,

i

am in a mess

on the ground,

growling bear grappling, the wind

pushing at my back, the dirt

dry.

i don’t know what to do, i think,

as i’ve thought,

like a prayer, or a wish,

or a forfeit.

even as the full moon glows

on my dark side

even as the night breeze cools

my red cheeks

even as the gentle deer watch me, they’re

waiting for me

wading in that shallow brook

that is just starting to fill from

the rain

& it rains

& it rains

& the brook flows clear

& i get up again

i let my bear go,

a brown-eyed, gentle cub

whose claws have not been made sharp

she is soft &

she looks at me

& runs free

the overcast passes

sooner than i expected

and i drink in relief

from the purest

streams

crystal, fluid

snow-capped peaks

mountain air

where it is still

winter

and the clouds dock

to silver stone

on this morning in february

before the leaves have grown back and

the ground is still

cool

mud

doves return

the cats twine,

trusting me

i stand in sunlight,

in the grass,

and i can see clearly,

i can see the trees

walking down

to the blue horizon

steller’s jay a

swooping slip of sky

to the maple branches

magnolia curtsies

in her white gown,

winter’s leaves dressed down

to their

lace undergarments,

daffodils’ yellow parasols

collecting dewdrops and

the orange tree my mother

planted

bears a soul

offering, sunlike,

i cradle in my hands,

i am cradled in the earth

If i had not woken

when i did

i would not have seen

the crow

departing

the night

If i had not woken

when i did

i would not have seen

the sun

dreaming

on my bed

If i had not woken

when i did

i would not have seen

the sky

pulling back

the duvet

If i had not woken

when i did

i would not have heard

the song sparrow

singing

her prayers

If i had not woken

when i did

i would not have known

the words

becoming

this poem