I always meet you in a grave,

you see me there, startled

and cut.

Sharp enough to make rough,

a conversation

that never sees the light of day.

 

You left me in the corner of my eye

quickly filling up with black.

I ate the black

and my veins turned white;

the line of chalk between us,

sometimes smeared.

 

My father was good and yours?

A kite you lost in sunset.

We cannot live on air,

these broken angles I found,

fanning my feet in your precise voice,

watch in cruelty,

you needed more weight.

 

Sometimes, I am too small,

forgetful in the wake,

braiding my fingers

in your hair, stretching me beyond

and lively, perhaps too eager,

it slaps me back. My sister –

 

the quick silver on the precipice-

I am falling asleep in Braille,

swallowing words

like liquor, loosening life lacking.

 

(the title is taken from another poem of mine reflecting my admiration for  a few female poets...one came back for a second go...)