Andi Leigh Writes

I am stuffed  Under the arched dawn With telltale signs  Of weathered sleep. And repose is  Fluttered blinks away While watchful ticks  Are slow to keep.

Are we not simply tired Or pushed to be unwilling? The earth is watered With sweat. The garden cherry tree Dries. The force of the sun Locks us to parched tongues. There is no sound On the winds. We lay the garden bricks But what comes next? May the earth open, Swallowing our labors. Let us rest In the garden we built.

Across the ocean There stands a dollhouse, Hiding a Forbidden lamb, Holding answers too sweet, Making poison preferable. Across the ocean There sits a plastic tree, With hope resonating In desperate hearts, But offers Not a healing drop. Instead there are tears Used for pilgrimage.

We can glide Between rocks thrown. There’s no shame In humble retreat, Though we wriggle Past the stoning To meet the furious eye.

Do not carry fear under starlight, Even in the rustle of eyes. Even in the pulsing judgement With no connection or care. Those eyes are passing leaves, Waiting to pile and rot, Unhappy with the branches You climb, And with every new branch that Carries you up, the starlight Introduces you to the moon A little more each time.

A drop of blood on my furrowed brow, A churning in my gut, A melancholy rhythm hidden in My breath. A chanting whirlwind thought that Won't just let it be— It won't just let it be.

The snake Is not a devil leading— It holds what you know In the eyes of wanting, Slithering to answers You're too afraid To face— Inward is where Harshness sleeps, wrapped Up in a knotted gut While the guide flows And works as a harbinger  Worth noting.