Roses on My Table, and Nothing in the Fridge Time to eat, she says, and sheds the day, in the doorway, kicks off her practical shoes, and drapes herself over the table, narrow and tired, filled with hunger. Oh, the table yearns for more than meager roses, sweet as they are, and I…
“I paint myself because I am so often alone and because I am the subject I know best.” Frida Kahlo
I dig new graves for my ancestors who need burying. I dig new graves for myselves who need burying. I bury the rest like a seed, aligned to your light. Rising up with you. I do.
Wool jacket fastened halfway up, buttons catching the light like June Bugs Drawing close, he whispers like a branch, one leaf rubbing another Home comes through in the ripples in the lake as the cool wind brings me back Summer in Razliv with the founder, the radical, the will-be revolutionary He speaks words like…
Lots of my friends/ say they are/ Anarchists/ but they do not/ own guns/ or know how to/ properly/ insert an IV/ or clean and/ stitch a wound.
Dedicated to activist, scholar, writer, and FBI’s Most Wanted, Angela Davis
Sleeping with Maduro,
Drinking Alone with Ernesto Cardenal
My front garden will be full of daffodils. I will hang a black flag from the porch. You could read Kropotkin out loud to the children before bed. No matter my exhortations, they still ask for princes.