The Trees Will Sleep

Chrystalla,

lost girl,

your pale mark

and mulberry punches

underdressed

in the memory of your old lovers,

their bodies

time-bent with the apple boughs,

Siamese skin

cut from other sky.

 

You must

remember to breathe

in the sincerity of night,

where

those casual hearts still beat

like a pomegranate morning,

and

those two rising suns still loom

deathless

behind your freckled eyes.

 

Karla M.

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Red Fescue

We slip in unnoticed,

through the grassy whiskers

flaying your creamy skin

without a murmur,

seeking out our craggy spot

hidden amongst the flowered violets.

 

We lay together,

until the silver pond in the distance

becomes our bed sheet,

the hook of our ribs glued

like the fairy-rings

of mud-chips in our hair –

 

the sunset sinks further

into the bruise-blue of your eyes –

our mirror-bent reflection

now painted across the sky.

You look up,

catching greyless clouds at your fingertips.

 

Karla M. Alexander

Snow Globe

I want to hold your madness.

Wash it

through my fingers and

cup it in the hand-basket

I wove for you.

Let my fingers tug

ribbons of air from

between your lips

as you drink all the colour

from black and white photos.

Let the ash-buds of your eyes

fall like first snow, and settle

on the pencilmarks of your face –

naked to me,

as the paper you’re written on.

Karla M. Alexander