Every man I’ve loved
is either a car crash or a
hurricane –
I could whisper which
is which, but the
results were the same:
whiplash, shattered windows,
splintered palms, grab
all I can carry and get the fuck
out, board up the windows,
hide out in the hope
my pen might just heal me.
I have stopped zero crashes,
convinced zero hurricanes to
calm themselves into some
summer breeze, and
crunched numbers and
bruises withstanding, I’ve not
wasted an ounce of my
love, unearthed magic in
my wounds’ animal edges,
my spirit a constant
gardener, tendering and
tamping hope into the earth.
michael king 