To my home

Home is an entity
Of everchanging madness
With long, weighted wings
Flying through the mountains
The canyons
The gardens
Of my soul;

Curves of shadowed architecture
Bending and forming the walls
And little light:
The overhead kitchen light
The quiet luminescence of the porch
The living room TV, blaring unusual technicolor

I’ve buried myself in it’s chest
And it’s wrapped his long tendrils around mine–
Such an odd, beautiful heat
That kept me safe, buried, intertwined

But I hear noises sometimes,
When I sleep
When I wake
A shuddering
A breathing
As if our home is right in the center of a volcano
On the precipice of 
explosion

He is rarely elegant, like the little swans he barrels over 
And very still, he rarely moves
But when he flys,
When he flys,

It shakes the whole world.
Bearing a new world:
A world full of shadows
and ironic clearness

Of the people, the entities, I live with inside

Sister

To my sister

I feel uneasy 
When I think of that pond
In the corner of my mind;

It sits ominously,
And something
Just beneath the surface
Moves

I’ve never seen it; I thought I had
My memory was never good:
But I remember her, distantly in a field
And she was beautiful

And she had light
So silent,
So comforting

I’d like to think that pond took her–
Took her it did
Within it’s little, mossy hands
And melted her
And sucked her into that water
Of dreaded evilness

She was perfect
And that pond was not
And they could not be the same

Right?

I took me a long time to remember
How I’d really seen her:
Between waves of heat

Conjured up by–

It could be possible
Sure that
That maybe she was never there.

And this delusion that she was
Was the same delusion that made me think
The pond was never there either
It was never murky
And my sister, my love, 
Was never beautifully malicious

In that world of shadows I finally saw her clearly
And in that pond sits a child
And above that child sits a human
And neither of them have any idea who they are

My Father

To my father; To everything that changes

My Father
Lies nowhere special
In my mind

He’s barely subtle,
Except for his presence
In the wind, the sun, the chill

There was a time where
I wanted him to be megalithic 
So I erected a structure in his name
But
As the seasons changed,
I could only watch him, who he was, crumble
For reasons I was unsure

Now that I’m older,
When I try to realize him now
I think of everything that shifts and changes;
The seasons, my bed sheets, the turning of the sun, the tide of the ocean
And yet he feels as indispensable
As my soul

He was never absent–that is what he dreaded, so he is not–
But he was never there, not fully, 
always changing between who he was and who he hated that he was

But I do not think I could of ever expected him to be, to be there

When I see him
I watch him
Drowning

His arms, like currents of wind
His cries, muffled against snow 
His half-genuine smiles, ever fleeting like the sun
His hugs, like the coming of spring
Are all him, all one, trying to escape

From this pool he’s created;
A scary amalgamation of all his dreams and fears 
Like sponges
Soaking up the alcohol he pairs them with
And the smoke his coats them with 

I used to get months of him, of that good him
But now I only get days
And every other day is a transition 
To another him
To another time

And 
Honestly
I don’t think he is truly happy anymore;

And that realization
Is what makes my world a mess

A horrible mess
In this storm

So I hide
And watch
From the mouth of a cave

As he rages and rages and rages on

Mother my garden