Not Super Girl

Within the words of licorice tea,
I find you.
sentient dissensions
owning the failure
of successes;
and the success
of failures.

Sensitive pallor
of prismatic translucence;
propensity’s inclination
night’s sky
you burn

In that same prismatic fashion
calling us
beneath the surface
of our own forgotten bodies.

Knowledge blurs our perceptions
love in a time of nowhere
and all-where

Dervishly
throwing off your own balance
knocking us unhinged
breaking our hearts
that we may sow intended.

A single strand
writes itself
into a parachute
for the many.
CKS

paint much love, always,
Connie Karleta Sales
a.k.a. This Crooked Little Flower

Night in the House of Poetry

she moves within the changes of humidity/barometric pressure
she is made of ink, charcoal, paper, and plaster-clothe
she finds she is empowered
asking for help; not attempting to be “super girl”