It’s like the
damp littered forest is
obfuscating my senses.
The way it smells,
the way you smell,
running heartily down the mountain.
Catch me!
Catch up to me!
Cranberry columbine creek.
To the boughing trees where I sink:
The summer sun
is lemonade
fade
through branches cool and long.
The dawn and then
the dusk.
East to west.
Colors falling
downward
in the glass;
sweetened syrup.
And I’m a wet mess
river swamp thing; algae:
Salmon skin
shining in the
confluence
of tributary
creek to river,
river to sea.
I left you in the dust of basalt
but we were already breaking;
the summer sun
iced lemonade,
cold beer, warm wine,
and water-blood.
The words we loved.
We drank so much we consumed each other!
We carved our names into sandstone
as if they would stay,
as if I would stay.
Bardess.
Seeker.
Poetess.
Seeker.
In the trees elf-disc comes through in
grenadine.
I can’t stop facing
cranberry colored,
crimson-basted
lemonade-draining creek.
Cranberry. Columbine. Creek.
Beloved, you died in those sugary woods.
My heart, your heart;
the same creature beating.
Wrapped in fat,
dripping dark black
blood in a trap
dangled from doorway.
Cranberry columbine creek.
I wanted to write,
but you hung your heart in the trap
and had it bleed before me,
as if me writing would destroy us.
Somehow you knew
if I was given the space to write,
I would leave.
Leave!
Inevitable that I leave.
Destroyer.
Seeker.
Traveler.
Seeker.
Mountains high and glossed.
Lemons squeezed and tossed,
tossed then found,
lost, and bound
to standing rocks
beside the stream
looking down,
not behind,
but down.
At
cranberry columbine creek.
Gloam Gnosis 