Sisters

She gave it to me,
a single
drop
of lavender.

She shared the scent
with me,
wrist to wrist,
older
to younger,
old pain
to new
mingling
for healing.

Still so young,
but now far away,
I curl up,
alone,
in a cage of foreignness
and friendlessness.

But still I hold
one
drop
on my skin.

Lavender.

The dark of her eyes
rests
in mine.

Sparks coalesced along the Svetskyn’s fingertips, and the light spilled in a frenzied path from his hands.

Soal tried to dig through the minds, dig through the living Memory, grasping for some remnant of the light in her veins. But the Memory was strong. Leaping nyun. Flaring nyun. A deadly arc—

In a last, desperate jerk of muscles, Soal flung her hands up over her face—and opened her vae to the nyun. I am Soal! she cried to it.

It was only 9:00 p.m., but I was the only one awake. I sat in my oh-so-comfortable burgundy recliner, huddling into the last scene of my manuscript as one would huddle into a fire.

About an hour ago, my husband, feeling unwell, had stumbled downstairs for an early bedtime on the couch. And just thirty minutes later, my big-cheeked, bright-eyed baby had crawled up two steps, looked confused, and then dribbled half-digested dinner all over the third step. She was patient about the ordeal, sitting obligingly in one spot so that at least the vomit had tea with only one step, instead of offering cream and sugar to all ten. My three-year-old watched from the upper steps, jumping with the adventure of it all. Continue reading “Drafting Soal: Evolving with “The End””

This Child Is Searching

I opened
The Book,
the one that
wasn’t
Dr. Suess.
The one with more than
simple, silly
fluffs.

The Book that let
each creature
Hold
Its Weight.

The illustrations were like
fractals.

The colored details were like
bird flight.

The unneeded borders
of dragons
and saints
and horns
and vines

Were
My
Need,

like a wormhole
direct
to the richness that ached
inside my
tiny
soul.

It was dark, but I still pulled into a parking lot to think. I had just returned from a writers’ group, our second meeting. I had pulled this writers’ group together in a fit of inspiration following my first writers’ conference. I was eager to share my ideas, and to work in a tight-knit group that could confirm where I was flawed–and where I was going.

But I had still been shaken when, on the first meeting, my outline for Soal had not stood up to inspection. “The motivations are a bit hazy here.” “Why is she doing this?” “Um . . . when does the action start?” I hope I am not the only writer that finds those moments absolutely terrifying. It is like the little imp in the back of your head–the one that throws banana peels at your screen and laughs shrilly every time you stumble on a word–was having a feast thrown in its honor. It was delighted. And I was drenched in banana slime. Continue reading “Outlining Soal: First Words”

One

Still blue light
mutes the mountains,

rolls down its sides
in an even slate
of blue

until peaks meld into foothills
foothills into grass
and grass into
homes
and
my
feet.

All swept together
like the illustrated circle
of a single
blue china plate.

Unsaid

Each hour tightened the cord around her throat.
Each moment the words went
unsaid
she could feel the needle enter,
sewing closed
her airway.

A Waking Up

The house is chill enough
to make each breath
a waking
up,

a
chance
to trace
the magic
blood

that soars

from heart
to vein
from heart
to vein
from heart
to every

extremity

of me.

Before the Balance

Muscles tight
on only one side.

A kiss given
but not quite
met.

I’ve been moving wrong,
with only half
the puppet strings
cut.

I reach for a cup
of comfort
and spill

for the crookedness
of my
spine.

How Did I Forget?

Sometimes I forget
as I scribble grades,
push a tired vacuum,

that she watches.

I scrawl a grade
across my phone,
only happen

to look down.

Two round eyes
watch patiently.
Two round cheeks
wiggle
as she sucks milk.

The phone clacks
to the table.

How did I
forget?

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