There's a soft rumbling in the belly of your guitar
reminds me of just how small my hands are--
gentle ends of my finger tips
match the humming inside my lips--
But you'll condescend now with structured chords
you all with your betwitching stringed gourds
I fumble and shake and forget my place
Get lost in the black hole of memory's embrace--
reminds me of how small my hands were
and so the spotlight I would always defer
gentle ache in the belly of my guitar
my true self trapped inside the mason jar.
Tickle your toes. . .
In my dreams I am the fictional version of myself. The one I seek to be in my short-stories and prose. The one who gets her point across...
To those who forget Poesy, like she's the wallflower at the dance I'm sorry you've never known words to be like picnic ants infe...
there is a small leaf over your eye and yet you can still see me.
Under a blanket it was at high altitudes in love or nauseous? I once held his hand his touch was so soothing-but with a lion's face. a...
Ah, 7. The number in question. During this process of developing my first full-length work of prose, and a memoir to boot, I have considered...