Folding Never-Light


Those thunderstorms
swallow with vulnerable intimacy,
dreams that lose our feelings
while lives span and loved rain

You’re for us,
known us.
We watch, quiet,
the heart of ordered storms.

It’s stretched like clockwork,
dark and scary,
wandering waves
flitted wondering.

Don’t prepare hearts
to feel like oceans,
folded into skin and bone.

Small, raw,
easy suns
look in awe.
Guaranteed mysteries
of simple mistakes.

We’ve been the rain,
compared cages,
dreamt images
to make a warmth of
impossible never-light.

We are going, we say.
essential passions of
tiny lights,
the small of a person’s eye
loving up
summer horizons.


Salt Depths

Julie Hashimoto-McCreery | Kaua'i South Shore

Salt Depths

Love and skies, shells of bodies,
waters of dislocation.

Everything is underwater,
your teeth and wastelands,
and the bests.

We are grounding gods
into ourselves,
our bones and brittle miles.

Let’s fascinate this recklessness,
shorelines of ourselves,
scarce outlines of endless treading.

Leave the missing to skies
and barren floats,
among depths
deemable as madness plunging.

As bodies of silence,
salt in our skins
and wildness,
as desserts
and mountains,
sources of blue scarce

Our bodies as waters,
our waters.


They call her beautiful,
this rampant disaster
of folds and inner seas.

Impervious to everything,
she’s sealed shut,
reluctantly closed in.
Closed off,
zipped up with haphazard seams.

The interior design has
tangled itself,
darkly ravishing
devouring the mappings
until all these waters have been exiled.

She’s readied her drowning tools,
held every breath
until the stars illuminate
behind her eyes.

Her body’s made of pockets,
carrying cavities
built for signals
and secrets,
prepared for unfolding.

She busies the twine
between soft fingertips.
They call her beautiful,
words constructed
of insulation and costly vacancies.

Its been more than a year now…


Skeletal Angles

I tie this whole cracked sadness,
silver leaving two arrangements,
holding two heartbeats.
Round it out with a softness.

Everything of skins birthed over,
we open these beggar attempts
at miles, skies beginning
with tenderness.

Believing the oasis
built of light and flowers,
demanding mouths of love
and walls, grains closing harbors.

The angles and words –
we wonder if the sun believes
in vagabonds who move
horizons by drawing skeletons.

Investing in a scream of constellations,
we carry nothing by loving,
almost taking in
the hull of glass and rationality.

Without bones would our words
swallow possibility?
These are fragile hours,
daylight envied darkness unfolding, together.

Placid spills of outward skins,
weary bodies feeling
eloquently bitter,
without time welled under reflections.

There’s something two spaces
imperfectly conduct:
dawning quietness like new grasps of water
shadowing shapeless wombs.

Part of an On-Going Project


Brooklyn is a diagram,
an atlas with
a body made of heartrending
pathways, at times strong,
occasionally tired, scarred, growing.

Brooklyn is relentless and real.
She’s mine. And hers.
But not yours, she says.

Brooklyn has charted
a lack of sacred space,
says its been stolen,
torn apart, burglarized.

She’s exiting this thing,
this mess of silence and disgust.
Says this vessel’s trading itself in
for a long-term relationship of resenting.

Brooklyn is all of these
underground mappings,
where the trains dart by too hastily,
where she can’t catch a breath,
where is she going?

Undone Hands

Run a sacred stillness,
generations waiting for
the hardest darkness,
where hearts are blue and wild,
sands grain apart
our lives
Suns torn with
bodies echoing walls
echoing mouths,
the ancients are reddened oceans,
their guarded bones
weak with edges of
their own madness.
To open the unruly
wide and tender
will surely break
the sky.
Soft open maps
defend our investments,
define our veins,
where the ocean sees our eyes.
Can’t say one and shines.
Can’t say one and open hands.
And this is rushing disobediently,
the way the ancients look through suns
as if to stitch with untamed sense,
ceasing softness,
our undone seams.

just bones

just bones

tides rising,
weathering the emptiness
with opened palms,
scattered lashes
dancing side to side
as if the winds are moving us.

what do you lose
between sinking
and dreaming?
where love is a longing
to wrap the ocean
inside your bones.

where do you go
when the blue
vacates from behind
the eyes?
and the sighs of freight trains
travel our skins,
tenderly tucking themselves
in our pores?

waters coaxing
with breaths too stifling
for breathing,
and deaths take us
too far
from here.