Alizon Kiel Poems

Each fingertip drawn across my flesh
Each point of contact
Finds tiny silk threads looping in and out of my every pore
Mingling along the meandering pathways in his palm
...

A survey
Found that I was made of limestone
Some fingernail scratches will leave marks forever
I was said to be made of migrated oceans
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The closet opened in a rush of cardboard
A lid ajar
Allowed the silk scarf to slither and writhe to the floor
Opening and opening and opening as it fell
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Most of my family is dead
My son said to me
As we were leaving the cemetery
As we were heading to our home
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We plea no more for cherry tree truths
With fruit centered in stone
Shedding red flesh shine on all beneath
They harvest then die
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The tension on my strings has no master
Bring me my bow sweet child
So I may draw across the resonance of a mother’s voice
Resound something comforting and rich
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1.

Rust is the tell of water’s dance with iron.
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It is quite possible that I do not believe in their God
It is a certainty that I neither believe in Heaven nor Hell
I do believe however in the curvature of a dark lens
In energy contoured even as our vision falls flat
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Roses have thorns

Her son lay dying in drapes across her lap dyeing crimson across a white canvas shroud in anguish
Blood itself is an organ with long long notes heard over wind that moans over long long strings blown themselves through long long reeds near the river wound too tight
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