My tongue is a bruised peach
longing for the dirt it came from
that old language from the holler
living beneath tissue and muscle
tamping down its music
deep into the soil
My mind is a murder of crows
scattered in every direction
searching for shine in the depths
marking the hours with a watchful eye
always looking for the next
place to land
My blood is a brittle orchard in autumn
carefully weighing bones like branches
my veins the vines that keep me tethered
I once counted all the scars
imagined them as ax scores to bark
and wished for an apricot sunset to wash them away
My body is a haunted house
on every level a witch
specters roosting in the beams
beating heart pounding a tattoo
filled with sighs and darkness
and waiting to be filled
Kristin Garth & Pink Plastic House a tiny journal 