I would like to tell you a story,
of the sands which stretch from our disorderly nests.
Unconsciousness, the great tide,
sweeping through a dark room, holding the lantern which lights
the dark blooms of purple hues growing in the night.
I would like to tell you of darkness and desire which twists
and weaves like ivy in a forgotten garden,
a plot laid for the dead and the silent in mind,
a quiet nightmare of soundless screams, though not unkind.
I would like to tell you of valleys and deserts,
red seas and dark forests.
Feminine in their chaotic arrangement
of misplaced forms. Surfacing, in a world of drowning,
where the orchids rise and bud.
Not smiling, not frowning.
I would like to tell you of the peacock waves
washing clean an era of stillness.
Art, the willow-bend magician,
the scarlet letter burning through our breasts
where voice is given to those who’ve been put to rest.
I would like to tell,
a long and unknown tale.
The blood-line of our wordless hush in the flood,
of women and other bodies of water.
A dark stain passed through time, mothers to daughters.