catharine bliss

where no one can reach
you,  
not withering away,  
silently,  
not shriveling,  
shivering,  
not dying, not dead,  
what is death? to you  
anyway,  
what could you milk  
from me?  
but the magnificent almond  
at the center—  
it took years of  
sweat, tears, fluids,  
not daring, not great,  
not wise, not yet,  
yet this little tree,  
breaking its back for  
the caress of life,  
to come yet,  
its prized fruit,  
its single pit,  
yet you took it—  
from me.  
downtree
downtree,  
a croaked out beat,  
said the frog  
with nothing to lose,  
when she showed me  
all this place meant  
to her,  
and for a while  
me, with my  
pink streaks—  
surprising,  
sullen,  
hell-bound;  
i knew it would stop  
the trains,  
i knew it would scatter  
the pigeons,  
but i had to wear the  
tornado eye,  
i had to strain from you  
a dye of importance,  
a dash of worth—  
that i might remain  
with you here,  
and that there is yet  
something left  
to lose.
OTHER PEOPLE  »  »
i don’t mind
your
by and by’s,
your house—
high and dry;
your
hiding place
between the
other people;
by and by,
it’s time
for a new
kind of weather.
your way—
my days go by,
and if it’s the
right time,
they won’t
mind.

THE HOURS / ON THE SEA »
so that you could see  
    across the hours,  
i perched up here  
    to catch your cry,  
so that you could find  
    where i’ve hidden  
what high tides will not   
    drench,  
a wave out on the sea  
    waits for you,  
so that you could know  
    your place in me.

p.m. rhoda
linen planes i do not want to remember
flatten along the manila folders of my memories
like a sigh in between a cough and a worry,
washing away with it phlegm and crumbs
and aches and cancerous growths and all.
knotted black webs of ago split
the eggshell walls of this room and flashes
of humid rain blanket down and suffocate
like the ago without the remember.
a.m. rhoda
from there to here i  
  say, through it all—  
backwards spinning—  
  cubicle disc of  
cutting flame, through  
it all, backwards spinning—  
i will say:  
    it could not have   
    happened any other  
    way.

catharine bliss   »  
it must be crafted,  
and the crafting takes    
peace,  
and the crafting takes,  
and it takes,  
and it takes.    

i was listening to  
a heart aligned,  
spilled-over nectar of     
a heart content,  
i was listening to  
peace.  

i took a year to  
listen,  
it took a year to  
wait until the buds   
became ribbons limp,  
golden bathing.  

it takes until  
the crafting stops,  
looseleaf amounted to breath,   
a heart still, un-rosied.  
it begins with her breath,  
a mother’s peace.  





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