#spprompts

to the poets & poet-curious!! national poetry month is upon us and as tradition beckons, here is my line-up of poetry prompts to usher you through this adventure. key point to remember: we’re not trying to write 30 perfect poems. we’re bringing ourselves to the page every day to see what happens. have fun!! I can’t wait to see what you do. I’ll be keeping an eye on #spprompts if you use these prompts! ☺️ happy writing ❤️🌸

I.

why did? i grew up here in this frowzy ditch, & the gray-gray featherplant unbraided me with spiky branch hands. i grew on

goldthread & gaywings, bogbean & toothflower, & the squirrel corn

II.

on the coldstarred peninsula, the once- friends played dingdong & ditched me here. i grew my

fleshy rootstalks downdeep into redmud & limestone. woke flummoxed from the fumitory & the needlebrush

III.

why did i? our lady of the roadsides asks while floating from the bayfog— she is a sheetghost with one round

abysseye, one eye patchworked in redbranch. she holds a burntpaper  rose in her dollhand. o lady

IV.

i crack myself open for you, peel my paleheart. inside

all weak & waterjuiced.

curled, the unnoticed moon sits dead on the edge of the bed unmade for two months. of all the graves i could think of to dig for it, i thought this would suit it best because i'm here.

i thought that part mattered but i'm not sure anymore.

i mix the dust with the ache in my chest and it slops into mud. i eat it. i leave nothing left. i clear the plate because i thought that part mattered too ( but i'm not sure anymore. hello? can you hear me? are you listening? will you — i thought it would help. i thought i was good. i thought i was doing the right thing. ) my body grows heavy with sediment instead of the light i thought it would make inside. the weight of a dead, unnoticed moon slings itself around my neck and i can't bear to get out of bed.

rotting, unnoticed moon sits dead in my chest for the next week or so. i don't know that the dirt beneath my nails is actually skin and i won't match wound to weapon for another week. my thigh hurts and i can't figure out why.

i'll spit the moon up in the bathroom sink and watch it slug down the drain. it was supposed to fix me .

lost for scrub pines, for

sagging sofas, stooped

shoulders, circus circus

second hand carpet and

some hurricane of smoke

my cindered lungs stuck

on an exhale, too big for

a small town, absent plans

and yet there were reeds

between my toes, a torture

glue and feet and traps

a shriek of escape from

the entrance of all the

ghosts with hollowed eyes--

I wait on my front porch for you to arrive

be it easy afternoon or midnight,

spring, autumn or midsummer.

There must be a lake in me.

It’s been too long since your last visit,

and I can feel it receding.

I throw fern leafs into water, scatter saffron on the wind, 

whistle in your honor.

Your cool touch calms the hot pit of fear in me

that nothing else can touch

The rumble of thunder strikes my heart into beating

like a hammer on an anvil