Life, Poetry, Writing

At 11am

Clover honey and butter

On my burnt toast

dulls the bitterness of disappointment.

Life, Love, Poetry, Writing


One evening I lay in the bathtub and give birth to myself. near drowning in a pool of a lifetime of my mother’s tears; purified and desalinated, strained through the marrow of my grandmother’s bones, with a drop of my father’s blood, the water chilled by his distance. hands strange and familiar come from surprising distance to rub my shoulders raw with encouragement and rejection. my lover’s fingers curl playfully around my throat and gently push my head under water but I struggle to the surface every time and breathe anew. slow and steady like they said to. my distended belly bobs, sweet amorphous cumulus. Every gasp ragged with indecision and humbling fear. I will carry this sense to term.

Life, Love, Poetry, Writing


When he was wrong
(which was more often than not)
He turned my lap into an alter,
Tonguing out his prayers of gratitude
For my mercy and grace.
He thanked me for my constancy;
That I did not forsake him,
Though he was undeserving
And for forgiving his sins,
While knowing he would sin again.
I heard his prayers
With the serenity of the ocean
And stroking his head,
Answered in the one language he could not understand
is mine.”

Life, Love, Poetry, Writing


There was a time when I split my veins for you and asked “what else do you want?”

Blood wasn’t enough;

Nerves, muscles too.

I stifled my screams and carved a smile from my horrors

And gave

And faded

And still you hungered.

Cracked my bones with you sharp teeth,

Honed on my martyrdom.

You grew fat from the marrow.

What else can you take, now that you have consumed all that is carnal

And I am a deathless soul?

– Janine Serioux