Not Yet Twelve

She hides the feather

under the bridge to keep it

safe for the next time.

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Wild Bloom

Love,
be like raindrops
devoured
by dry earth,
unbridled
as wild flower
blossoms,
and be
consumed
by the scent of it,
the lush of it,
fall back
into fields
of the decadent
bloom
that swallows
our thoughts and the time
in this high untamed
garden
at summertime’s end,
spill
every last petal
of riotous blue
to the black earth
that beckons
all back
to the soil
between
your barefooted
revelrous
roots.

Peel

Today I peeled back
all manner of things:
white and wind-swelled
morning curtains for
the flood of copper sunlight
and also the speckled
sheath of one ripe banana.
I exposed the body inside
of a fresh tamale’s damp
blond husk, still warm
from the brick oven and
the soft hands of Francesca.
All day alone in the almost
rain, I peeled off my voice
and tossed it into the bin
with the banana shell
and the corn wrappers
(now there were three),
where they lay all tangled
into the flesh of each other,
a silent yellow homage
to the necessity of
opening.