MayaCatherine's profile

In the murmur of hills my grandfather lives, a medicine ball of disputed leather. Knuckles bolted, sore hands of a man who’s never loved the plush of palms or a child’s head of soft moon. The chickens run the hillside. My grandfather elects himself minister of a plan to abolish the sun. He fights his wane, meanwhile, the hills grow wilder. All his life he has been this one idea, a motorcycle circling reproach and blame, chilling the breaths of his two daughters who left notes, don’t find us ...

the best your wings will do? Don’t explain reason. Don’t explain this falsity of knowing what you need. Define density, the sea foam form. The forceps of desire flatly on the table. My glass leans towards them, makes a toast to infinite do-overs and retries. Even you are just a first stab at brilliance. Even you have more than the floor in store.

An example of light is the moon that will not dissolve what’s in front of it. In my room, two postcards and a doll with a face so still she is a port of steel. The glass of her eyes is your cold burn and perfect crescent of expression. The afternoons I made crickets perform to them. You said cruel Briony, but I couldn’t see how the bow of its instrument could be its own. Now when the night is Mars and nothing else, men and none whole, I call for you. I want to take needles to the blades of ev...

You make for a juicy story, friend. A specimen, if you will, unjustified effect. Much of what is said need be said twice, the way a lamp doesn’t cast but repeats light. In this way we come to believe that love isn’t momentary lapse, fields passed by car and stopped to feel the golden stock, each ear of corn more focused than the next. Meaning is measured by initial intent but you are tragic, accidental. Love is a loose hem on your trousers. See how well you fit amongst the unreturned waves, ...

I couldn’t promise fourteen lines or any sort of written excellence, much less of twelve to suit the sort of penitence poets seek in these sonnet forms. Shakespeare’s pockets could have well adorned these last nine lives like nine lives that jump the hedge of modern modesty, spilling out the heart in its entirety; though still no Wyatt and no monarchy to proof the all collapsing roof of these last lines four. But let’s forget the trying binds of gifted rhyme and measure, forego the form for s...