I've been writing
with the silky ink
pumped by my heart.
That tender flesh machine,
ticking music box of enslaved time
that weaves my reliable breath
onto the landscape
of this crumbling era...
Perhaps we should throw
rice and beans to violence
and douse the fires
with a bowl of soup.
I know how to do that.
Even when I've been
content to be small
paddling the thick waters
of my neglected swamps
on a quivering walnut shell
a yellow leaf as my sail,
sensing a shore in the dark
of this aimless meandering.
Can't row in two directions
at the same time.
I've been wanting to land.
Land on the soil of my own body.
Plant a flag as the sole sovereign,
nest within the cradle
of my forgotten dreams.
And then open the floodgates
to the queue of artifacts
clamoring to be birthed by me
and freed into the world...
I've been known to
leave a trail of babies
thrown with their bath waters.
But I've crossed a few burning bridges
dancing on the puddles of my blood
without skipping a beat.
So I'll join the coyotes
on their night howling serenades
to the broken hearts...
I'll collect the ashes
and mix them with saliva
to make another magic ink
and write remembrance
over the skin of any willing soul
wanting to stir up their tender scraps
of sacred longing...

© LUNA