The woman in the mirror
has scars on her belly
and a sword through her heart
She is somebody
that I used to know
before her secret
ripped the seams of her soul
A cold and empty tree
suspended in longing
for seeds that wouldn’t
bounce and die
in her wilderness.
Her bedtime stories untold
claws up the walls of her throat
reminding her
there are no children
just pinpricks in empty space.
The Cyclone
The wind asks the cherry tree
to wake me up
by rapping on my window
with its overgrown branch.
It wants me to judge the orchestra
with the air around
as one colossal woodwind instrument
played by the inept fingers and mouth
of the trees and windows left open.
The sound that they produce
is similar to the wailing
of a mother who lost
all her children
and not a symphony
as he wants it to be.
