fingers

somehow I know, already
what you have inside your hand
safely kept in your gentle fist

two seeds of an amethyst flower
common, but still something so precious
they rattle inside your fingers

and leave their dust behind
saturating the lines in your skin,
turning your scars a little black and dirty

the clock has not been ticking long
dear, but I know that these seeds
of purple and white

are what you are going to give to me.
despite my prior protestations
and yours, I know that they are mine.

you cannot explain why you would
trust me to keep these valueless, precious things
of yours. neither can I,

but somehow you have the talent
to make me feel like I am a mother of the earth-
damarian queen, growing your seeds into crystals-

when I thought I was a sea of fire,
who turned forests into barren deserts of ash
and homes into burning rings of hell

star part II

read part I here

I wrote once
a little while ago about
a burning hot star that
scalded my palms and
blinded my eyes
I wondered why I was
so paralysed by its beauty
and so afraid of its power
I plunged my hands into it then,
not knowing how to harness its purity
I gilded my fingers silver
and skinned them to the bone

stars are all white gold
and full of dreams
but they don’t travel through galaxies
and now that I understand how to
work my telescope,
instead of staring into the light
with bare-eyed fascination
I can see that the star, so far from
my breathing earth
is burning itself into static death
going out in a blaze of beauty
that will suck the life out of every
little thing around it

I look away from the endless sky
and down at my feet, tempered in their
little leather boots
and see the leaves swilling around them
I see the pearls of dew drops glisten
and grass growing through cracks in the pavement
a sparked single match lights a
wood fire somewhere to my left
and I realise that a burnt-out sun
a thousand light years away
could never warm my healing hands
could never captivate and delight my eye
the way my left-hand fire could