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Literature Text
When the glacier slides,
I'm the one
. . .
lost.
Wondering where the right path is, with doubt biting. Frozen memories, icy distances.
When the world grows colder,
I'm the one
. . .
cracked.
Standing on my own, with the past craving for me. Stolen, missing.
When the snow falls,
I'm the one
. . .
drifting.
Trying my best, to make sense of it all. Wandering, wondering.
When the hail storms,
I'm the one
. . .
walking.
Holding my guard, locking my heart. Smiling, pretending.
Literature
Sundiver
i.
When I was six a phoenix
tried to drown me.
Underwater I grabbed for fire.
Like Icarus, I was reaching
towards the sun.
I hope he still has
bald spots. I hope he still
cradles searing scars.
He was death,
I was the bird.
ii.
My uncle knows plastic-
wrapped soaps as well
as he knows fine wines.
If he drinks enough,
he thinks it’s love-
carved names rubbing
the silver drain smooth. Diver: 28 days
sweating, ship black against
sea. Like it had been peeled
from amber tongues.
iii.
On my fifteenth birthday, the boy
with stars on his fists and Saturn’s
rings in his eyes told me I was pretty.
It was the first time
anyone had
Literature
Glacial Affairs
Spring
She rusts the world green,
garlanding her hair
with flowers and sunrise.
At first, they clink
waxy tulip cups and gossip
over the corn tassels' latest
monarch fashions. They pallet hay
into sleepover mattresses and braid rain
through each other's plaited
cattails. But though her palms
toast eggs from hens, her
dream-clear eyes flint ice, and the
green reflecting from manicured lawns
will never match her envy. She
scorches her enemy from memory.
Summer
She strokes sun-kissed knuckles
across reddened scalps, skirt
rustling with fairy fire.
She casts a flippant glance
over her shoulder, ignoring
for as long as she can the
lady in red t
Literature
Homesick
I am the river's son,
my arteries flowing turquoise
and turning to rapids
rushing around my frame,
filling me with this sense
of buoyancy, minnows
tickling my sternum.
I am the river's son.
My palms caress each
silty shoreline, every
battered bank and bend,
and these places I know
so well become me
as my fingerprint,
even the bridge above me
inflamed by the afternoon
sun-glow, burning rusty and
blood-orange against
the steel blue sky.
I am the river's son;
I bring my home along
like hermit crab,
where I step
I pull water from the earth.
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Congratulations on the DD 
While preferences differ (mine usually does) on the choice, I have no doubt here. This is quite the amazing piece, written in a natural yet experimental way which you were able to pull off really well
While preferences differ (mine usually does) on the choice, I have no doubt here. This is quite the amazing piece, written in a natural yet experimental way which you were able to pull off really well