Beauty Writing

A glimpse beneath the labels and surface selves we women wear so well.

You speak poetry liquid as fragrant tea poured boldlyfrom steady hand. I sip at your words savoring the sweetness of each syllable, swallow smo..

Sweet Ancient of Days, Come to me wearing any disguise: thorny rose soft-footed snow mournful wind or rain tippity-tapping my window pane; ro..

Your anger mother is as quiet as your hands folded mutely in your lap at church, hands which (not unlike your anger) will not fidget or move a mus..

My mother, a bleacher of bloodstained sheets, bleaches my dreams the color of bones, and feeds me on snakes and dirty slate stones. She winces each..

Compartment 114
Compartment 114

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