ChildersMoon-crested jungle-cat mother,Childers by Taralitha
reigning supreme over prehistoric princesses,
a goddess besmeared with the glowing juice
of late-night drag walks and sleeved hearts,
who runs rabbit with queens and fluid June
jumpers, striding down the emerald aisles
of theory and fancy, calling nothing home
Strings of fate bind tighter than blood.
We find our families in trees and boxes,
on classroom rosters or barstools
rather than wombs and natural cradles.
Genetics do not define the pull
of the yearning soul or sate
the itch inside, which reaches
for some tender hand in the darkness
to pull one from the chilling earth.
How we find our kin cannot be replicated
by the toss of DNA die. But in the fretting
of this windswept mortal sea, I give gratitude
to have been pulled
into your soothing tide.
LuleAnd in this phantasm, flu-dream:Lule by Taralitha
the slender hind, oak-bodied elk
trumpets out in the foggy elms,
soak-mossed and frog-hailed,
weeping of their tribulations
from the fires of ages,
horns scorched by human thunder;
an archivist owl scribes down
every fairy birth in the willows,
recipes for elf-balm and shot-heal,
gossip from the rabbit den,
chittering of new twigs and thistles,
renunciations of cursed hounds
never to heel at the beck
of another master
but to wander, lost, a bastard race
to die in the crack-hallow pines;
undines diving, caked with frond
and froth in the wind-swept hollow,
their ponds pith and pitch with soot,
sooth-saying of ship-wrecks on far-tossed
shores, dreaming of mergirls with pearl eyes
and pebble teeth, to comb cockles from their hair,
to kiss the breath of sailor death
into their dark backwater mouths;
a grain of sand, a cup of tea,
misery lamented, one dark drop of ink
on a fingertip - my words so described -
to smudge the tabletop of time
with my twitt
UnglucksfallJesse is no longer in my repertoire.Unglucksfall by Taralitha
A plinkering of piano keys
my fingers will not replicate;
the stutter of bassoons,
tumble-scratch of flutes,
one long wavering key
that died out, hissing,
wrestling a crash
of prolonged thunder.
Slanted light of morning
that breathed heat
on flicker-scritch lids;
walks, frosted neon,
your mahogany eyes
like moonshine for mine,
pancakes pregnant with syrup,
house-shopping from tattered
retail windows, hands locked,
last nights of silence
whipped up in razor winds
cutting deeper than words,
wounding parts of me
I thought lost decades by
closed fists, fits of pique,
stone mantelpieces chippping teeth;
no more, this is no more,
a final email like the last
Morse code message of the ages;
A last viola whine to wind
down a tremulous solo,
and the trumpet crescendos
in a crash of rage and white light -
this man is forever lost to me.
Strike down the band, curtain call
the symphony, and be done with melodrama.
These hands will never call
AsimovThe sins of the parentsAsimov by Taralitha
truncated in us, in this
your childish cries - “Harm!” -
resound with imagined wounds.
What salt have you hallucinated
in your eyes this time?
What bid for mercy do you puke
for phantasmal offense?
I have done my penitence
on many men’s beds,
like well-hung fruit.
Your princely pathos
was a Tigris not crossed
by any mortal Psyche,
and no click of fingertips
along sallow vertebrae
or lick of tongue could sate
that Charybdis which whines
inside your hallows.
The plum dip of your bum,
ample plush of your lips
are pithy trivia that warm
a crumbling structure within me
still believing in eternal good;
otherwise nothing but shrieking wind
rakes your heart, a golden rind masking
the whir of computation.
Mirror :Contest Entry:Hes got 206 bonesMirror :Contest Entry: by AGoddessFinch
A nose of cartilage
Two sockets for eyes
And he wants to show every single one.
He weighed himself again. And again. Watched the needle spin inside the plastic and hated the time it took for it to settle on that number just above 100. And it wasnt right. Its not right. Its not right, it cant be. Because hes been purging himself for all these days and his skin feels so God damn tight like its plastic wrap or something and still thats where it lands?! That number over 100 when it should be below but its not its not its NOT!!
So he stepped off the scale and kicked it with a socked toe. Because it wasnt his fault. Hes trying so damn hard and its not his fault that hes this way. He wasnt born asking for this suit,
I am a transgender, disabled, published author of two poetry compilations. My work has been featured in several compilations and specialty publications as well as student newspapers and other outlets. |
Currently I attend University of Illinois-Chicago, majoring in British Literature and minoring in Classics and Gender and Women's Studies. I intend to pursue a graduate degree in Conflict Studies, with the hopes of becoming a professor and consultant aiming to eradicate sexual violence against women and the disabled and understanding sexual violence and the dynamics of disability throughout history. I work at two nonprofits, the Better Business Bureau and Porchlight Counseling Services, a nonprofit which provides free counseling to individuals who have been sexually assaulted during college. In my free time I kayak, care for my two ferrets and guinea pig, read nonfiction focusing on anthropology and criminology, and learn more about any topic that strikes my fancy. I hope to move to Scotland upon completion of my undergraduate degree and am seeking a Fulbright to continue my research.
Professionally, academically, and personally, I conduct and pursue research related to disability, sexual violence, gender, spirituality, and interdisciplinary methods of understanding the links between these subjects. Those who are interested in these avenues of study are free to contact me at firstname.lastname@example.org.