Breathing Poetry

Written by Melissa Crowe
She lives in Portland, Maine, USA
Her blog: Milk and Paper

Fancy Luncheon with Apocalypse

My love of ginger is a fascist
love, the smell of ginger--
everything should be so clean
should smell of sugar and ice,
lemon juice and baby hair, should
hide its sweet under dirty, knuckled
skin--maybe the world under its
crust of blood and lava, under its
wrinkled scab, is also new, white
as a bone, and maybe all these
beatings, all these licks will get us
to the center, the pure meat,
a heat against which we will want to
press our ugly bodies till they burn.

Originally published on writer's personal blog.
Posted with consent of the writer.

Written by Melissa Crowe
She lives in Portland, Maine, USA
Her blog: Milk and Paper

Threadbare

I sit, spine-stitched, and weave wing to bird
in this bed of twig-spit: we do what we
can. Everybody's fragile as a swan neck.
Everybody under feather-puff has bones
of glass. In one hand a needle and thread
but who said she who makes repairs can't
also be the one to make the tears.
I think I ripped these birds to shreds. It's due
to me they need their heads attached, their
small hearts held while I make my
stabs of love. Oh, mother, what happened
in your nest. Oh, mother, I am grateful
for the free fall, the ground smack. Even though
I need a mend, I won't be coming back.

Originally published on writer's personal blog.
Posted with consent of the writer.