All of the women poets who committed suicide stab my chest like wheat spikes
to my calves, like nails to the cross, like forget-me-not thorns
if forget-me-nots grew thorns.
sleeps like snakes, which is to say, it is always on guard. My sides
bleed the color of poppies
and I’m wearing a corollary of half-lit Universes on my back.
The fire burning you from within never
lights up your footsteps at night – shadows, however, pounce
on your pupils and devour
what’s left of your iris.
Madness that smells of musty rooms
isn’t my kind of madness. My kind of madness
are open rooms at a house nobody inhabits anymore
air leaking through a broken window
and pinning petals in vibrant colors
to the knobs of doors nobody closed.
The flight of the birds
leaves a trace of daytime dreams.
Flying is overrated – us, for once, we want
our feet on the land and land somewhere else
on our eyelids.