I’m not afraid of you, she said.

I have felled a forest of pages,
spilled my blood upon their gazes,
laid bare the reasons I believe I am unworthy.
And you… could never wound me
more.
than.
that.

k.d.w.
June 6/17

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Phoenix

You are not ready for a love like hers.
She loves without limitation, hesitation, or reserve.
To love her is to know the most loyal and steadfast.

You are not ready for a love like hers.
She sees the tender core of you that yearns.
Her fingers trace the mossy mess of your scars
and fill instead each bruise with wonder.

You are not ready for a love like hers.
She knows your poet’s heart beneath the dust
of torched futures and past loves.
She breathes a mist of hope for new beginnings.

You are not ready for a love like hers.
She feels like home and tastes of fresh rain.
You know her by the mischief on her lips
and the soft scent of her embrace.

You are not ready for a love like hers.
But oh, you are so deserving.

k.d.w
May 23, 2017

Ancient thrum of knowing

You
know the softness of my heart, and
the small sound I make when
the first sip of coffee hits;
the shivered purr of pleasure
from lips
grazing the back of my neck in passing. And,
how I take my tea,
without asking,
and whether it is my left hand or right
that carries the small scar of youthful flight.

You,
remember the best shade of blue to match my eyes,
and that I would rather
hang a seashell round my neck
than a flash of aged carbon.
And you
remember I don’t like thyme
but love strawberries, and
would rather be barefoot and campfire brined
than painted, perfumed,
or defined.

You,
share with me the corners of your heart
long dusty and neglected,
bruised and bleeding but not forsaken.
And you
trust me with your pain
and hold me when my sorrows overcome
the lightness of my being, and we become
the ancient thrum of knowing.

k.d.w.
Apr 30, 2017

VOJ

We are not tied to this land, you and I, son.
Gypsy souls handed down, wanderlust our inheritance.
Home is no longer:
C/O Derelict Mining Town,
7 Kilometers Beyond the Middle of Nowhere,
Highway of Tears, BC, VOJ.

Once it boasted a grocer gas station hotel bar, and mine.
Now: a bar.
Endako: End of the line.
Blink and you miss nothing.

We could not stay in this land, you and I, son.
Our story glowed brighter the farther south I returned.
My seven year old self’s nostalgia faded in the rear-view mirror,
Leaving, always, the end of the line.

Kyla Whitwell
©2015

It started with a poem…

image

She
She is moon: dripping stardust.
She is maiden: love on legs, scattering joy.
She is song: breathing life through music.
She is mother: governess of how to human.
She is lover: pregnant promises and burnished faith.
She is phoenix: fanning yesterday’s ashes.
She is night: peeking at the shadows in the cracks of ourselves.
She is moon-glow and ashes, safety and storm, singer and song.
She is me.
She is we.

k.d.w. (2017 edit)

Begin. Never stop beginning.