apple woman

Holly at House of Heart

House of Heart

A hummingbird is  etched
at the nape of my neck
below a storm of hair.
She hovers like a tiny moon
sipping cruets of  honeysuckle.
My mind is  a cutlass of emotion,
a chisel of shame or the begging
tongue of a starving feral.
Pink berries perch on snowy slopes,
deeper,  harvests of  Robin’s eggs.
I want to keep them  safe from the
graze of  cold teeth passing  through
a   sky blue dress.
My apple heart  harbors man
whose anger is a ligature winding.
It’s beat is a warm river  of release
or a bleed  across a canvas of  ice.

shoulder tattoo


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I refuse to be invisible. I honor my voice. I write because I have to.

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