I am not a hurting god,
I am not cruel
Toolless, I threw the fish
back in the lake
Queenright and settled
with it now
Confucious said the body
is sacred, you shouldn't open it
In the heat of battle you said
arsenic selenium
If I had seven tongues,
the faithful coast
If I had designed the throat
I'd cross the water to find you
There is a night inside a cedar inside a
lamentation inside a swan
I broke all my birds on you,
feather–hands
Which way out is the sun–dog?
Which one of us is the swan?
You are what the salmon spawn to,
winging
Instructions for skinning: hair
dulls a knife; cut from the inside out
Those aren't jewels
You only get one
sister, treasure
I threw the fish back in the lake
***
Do you even lighthouse?
You are all of the flowers today
Too long sharpening, but how to soften?
I have no further questions at this time
What makes you think I enjoy
building an ark in this summer haze
It's like I'm auditioning for a water ballet
I got a letter from a snake:
eat, eat, eat the fruit
Jury's still out
We are the swan children
and we look after our own
I live in a tiny boat with only room
for half my needs
The face of God a sailor's temple
Buying the sky back
pound by blue pound
I am a woman standing outside a house
wearing a fire and waiting on the flood
Alisha Bruton is a three-ring circus where a brown bear named Wanderlust and a brown bear named Well-Tended Garden chase each other on tiny bikes, forever.