I remember how honeysuckle

grew behind swings

we once took turns reaching the tip

where sun and metal greet.

A break from who we were,

your hands pressed against my back,

and we ached for the unknown.

The gravel-waves,

our metal respite and pretend-home,

now sail through time alone.

The honeysuckle is a specter

that tastes cold

like a stone.

I see your face in rays of gold

and hear your voice as nectar.

What was your prized possession?

The ring of twig and pistil

I forged in March

or the bugbox?

Ladybugs

imprisoned yet loved.

And as you lay lost on cotton waves,

I become a ladybug

and as my wings caress your cheek,

fingers travel lightly

above bruised lips.

Your breath halts under my hand –

our pyre’s lifespan.

Upon the gurney lies the corpse

Eyes and mouth sutured

in a running line.

Putrefying flesh frozen by formaldehyde

The creature’s journey

compressed

into history’s fold.

This mammal of timid rank,

its fears

drank the last drop

of blood.

Its dreams were left

on the side of the road

like the carcass of a bird.

In that amphitheater of frozen specters –

time exists

and climbs to the corner

where the soul lives

caught between what it knew

and what it wishes to sing.