waiting for birth

Poppy petals are strewn
across my childhood, white and pink,
tiny, wrinkled, torn
from pods to be examined,
and wilt and die.

Deep-planted seeds in my soul
root in dark, unhurried.
Hope is hard—trust,
when nothing appears to grow,
and beauty is slow.

But air and light and touch
would kill this half-formed life,
scattering pink petals
where there could have been
a poppy field.



uninvited she comes
binding tight
    in burial clothes.
Left to hang
     to rot
     to die.

But no–
death wraps crack.
Tight folded wings
     shimmering color,
legs long, and few
The beautiful caterpillar
     gone. And now who?

Am I to fly?



There is this beautiful deep down
         that is real
    like the kaleidoscope

you have broken parts
          raw edges
            of stays,

Quaking, shifting, shaking
    deep down
      who are you
      this shape emerging
    yet always there



Every word measured
Every sentence designed
Every thought censured
Every spoken word mine

Open my mouth
words pour out
Dam broken
a tomb unsealed
Tremble inside
at the mercy of a waterfall

Breaking wave rushing
unbidden words
Whence these tears
I do not know
No right to cry
but the right of humankind