L.M. Cole

This body is not a temple.
It is a wave-worn wooden ship
that cracks and groans
in the currents.

I count the snap of bones
against stars visible above
in hopes that the light
outnumbers the pain.

I bail salt tears from the navel
of my ship and release
my jaw as a sail to catch the wind.

After all, I have learned to navigate
by stars, by the sea, by the brilliant
points of pain in this ravaged body.

Tectonic

movement of the under self
subterranean roiling into
and out of place

these clicks and clashes
form each new eruption
each mountain peak
each dipping valley
between the ribs

this tectonic body is rebuilding
quaking into strike-slip
such significant
displacement

the spine convergent
holding up the arc strained
the crust is stained with the sea
with the salt the flame
and underneath
incomprehensible shifting

Clean

I watch extraction videos on the internet
to convince myself impurities can be
removed – oh, god will I ever be clean
of you?

Wash me in lilac, in dew drop
in stump rot, in moss top.
Let me wear the decay;
let the shell of me reflect
the inner workings of this
soft wilderness underbelly.

Let me die with the autumn
to rise again triumphant
in unwearied, too-green spring.

There can be no life without
death, no growth without decay.

Show me an extraction
worth believing in.

L.M. Cole is a poet residing on the US East Coast. She has had work published with Strukturriss, Roi Fainéant, Substantially Unlimited and others. She can be found on Twitter @_scoops__

L.M. Cole’s SALT MOUTH MOSS QUEEN is available from Alien Buddha HERE