Essence

Yesterday, I printed some of my poems.
Black letters on ivory, one hundred percent cotton, twenty-four pounds.
It felt strange to hold my words in my hands,
Making concrete, that abstract part of myself.

Here is the proof, there is more to me.
There is more.

Is it really possible to uncover these secret,
Hidden places within myself?

Are a rose, and the scent of a rose, one and the same?


--bruised orange

Of our first date, this is what I will remember

We walked along and I thought about
the green birds I wanted to show you,
the crunch of crushed red granite beneath my feet,
and the way your hand lightly bumped into mine,
asking the question your mouth could not.


--bruised orange

In Dreams She Struggles

Tread carefully, now.
A tiger rests in my chest.
She gathers her strength.

Tread carefully, now.
A tiger sleeps in my chest.
She dreams of waking.

Tread carefully, now.
A tiger stirs in my chest.
Crouching low, fangs bared.

Tread carefully, now.
A tiger springs from my chest.
She waits no longer.

In dreams she struggles,
Bursting from her prison cage.
Her eyes shine diamonds.


--bruised orange