They called her hair windswept when it blew across her face.  Her mother always said it reminded her of a wise woman, walking along a shore.  Her baby, bound for greatness.  Her mother always told her she could do anything, be anything, sky’s the limit. I guess Salome took her seriously.  You could often find her walking along ledges, arms spread wide.  Everyone had thought it was to steady herself, but now it seems maybe she was doing something else. Practicing, testing her limits.   

It was a neighbor who spotted her first, slowly making her way up the top of the cliff.  He saw it from the edge of the village where they lived.   

Ital was sitting on his rooftop, warm clay beneath his hands and feet as he leaned against the edge, pulling on a hand rolled cigarette.  He watched Salome’s slow progress up till she reached the cliff’s zenith.  He thought to call for someone, her mother perhaps… but when Ital heard the voices below, he realized that he needn’t bother.  Already the villagers had begun to gather.  Some shouted and pointed excitedly, while others murmured prayers and judgements.  

The girl’s mother was among them.  She didn’t seem as bothered as he would have expected.  Though she did have a calm sort of concern about her, steady like a river. When her eyes found and fixed on her daughter, they remained there, unmoving. 

Salome took a deep breath.  Then she took another, and another.  Closing her eyes, she began to center herself.  She knew everyone in Thachsit thought she was bent, directly out of her mind.  Even across the distance she felt them waiting, judging, felt their eyes on her… so, she sat.   

The sun rose in the sky, it burned hot and persistent against her dark skin and she welcomed it.  Salome had always found that the sun opened her up, connected her to the world around her. She thought of the sun as one of her lovers, it provided for her a spiritual, sensual experience.  

A breeze picked up on the cliff, carrying the smell of dust and dried grass and wildflowers up from the valley below.  Salome inhaled deeply, savoring each breath, letting go.  

The sun had set. Salome noticed only after she opened her eyes and found stars glittering over Thachsit.  Some of the villagers who gathered earlier had since set up tiny makeshift camps.  A handful of blazing fires raged haphazardly in the mouth of the valley.  She imagined they were cooking food on them, making love by them, drinking wine off one another, dancing and laughing.  She felt the threat of jealousy tug at her chest. 

Salome could hear the drums. Could feel their beat thrum through her body.  She wondered distantly when the music began, it trembled the earth beneath her, Gaia’s heartbeat.  Lightning bugs danced around her and crickets added their notes to the drummers’ song.     

When Salome stood up again, the moon was glittering over the valley, making playful shadows among the rocks and creatures below.  Things scuttled and scurried making patterns in the dirt.  She could still smell it on the air, sweet and clean, like after a heavy rain.  The dirt felt cool beneath her feet, it grounded her.  Salome took one step, then another, until she was at the very edge of the cliff. Then, she jumped.  



The night the moon came down, she hung first in the sky unmoving, watching

She glittered her light along the treetops they danced in gratitude

I love you, you know – she whispered to the wind, urging it to carry the message along

Unsure of who she meant for it to reach 

What is it to weep ?

It is a sad poet who has no words to express the feelings welling in their veins, no way to leak out the madness which gathers in the corners of their mind and chambers of their heart. 

How, when the shadow strikes, does a wordless poet allow themself to feel, to weep? When they know it will still live there, roaming through hallways and edging down corridors; timid, ruthless monster. 

It has many names, this monster which has taken up residence within my senses. I call it grief, or loneliness, or abandon. Although, the years have taught me it’s truest incarnation is my old, timeless friend, rage.  

Mother’s Day (or, Open Adoption)

I used to check the mailbox every day

Looking for something with my name

Written in loose cursive, with a Georgia postage stamp

Telling me you love me

I dream of that mailbox

Barren and sad, creaky door

Erect flag, with nothing inside

I dream of ups drivers and big brown parcels, just for me

Telling me you love me

I read your letters

To the woman who raised me

My mother

I hear the pain in your hand when you ask why she doesn’t write,

When you ask if the kids are alright?

I can read between the lines she couldn’t

I’m sorry she didn’t write

I’m sorry for what was stolen from us

I’m afraid you’re dead

I looked up your name in the obituaries online

So many had died

None were your age

It’s mothers day and my dreams say I have repressed rage

I always thought it was a super power

Being able to stash it away

My dreams tell me I can’t live this way


I had a dream that you walked away from me

Your eyes slid from my face like a sliding glass door

Clicking into place

On the street in front of you

You were wearing a black baseball jacket 

With a black baseball cap

Cocked to the side in the way that you do

Always leaning, always swayin’

And there was something in your eyes

A finality

Which leaves me wondering if 

Dream has finally merged with reality.