One Tiny Purple Flower Poem by Alison Rosalie

We write and we write
until our hair falls out.
The passivity
of our longitudinal looks
is another kink in the storm;
one more dreamt night.
a new dark to discover,
to define, to uncover
The living movements
The tiny moments
The corporeal breath.
Definitive air
breezes like winter’s hands,
a shock of cold
to undernourished hips.
A soft gasp.
A break in the clouds,
A snapping crack of exothermic
energy.

A bend a twist a pull or a slip
of something
we are not.