Tag Archives: poem

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,
this,
this,
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,
wildness
as desserts
and mountains,
sources of blue scarce
refusal.

Our bodies as waters,
our waters.

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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
flight,
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.


Brooklyn

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
together.
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

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.


Gather into songs,
let the empty in
too close to see,
where bitter definition
and the greyest places
coat our walls.

Tear something,
anything,
into light and unfold
the words
softer,
like morning light
and skin brushing skin
only in passing.

Sing the hollows
across puddles,
wandering within
the quiet we wish not
for sharing.

Sadness prayers.
We’re broken
and the brightest
wings still hold back
our corners.

Shut ourselves off for grief
for the meanings
within our darker seams.
We rewrite,
back to back
somehow
reaching for love.


Incus

Open hands with cracked palms
and splinters through our fingers.
The light leaks through,
tumbling
as though an ocean
moved right past the hollow
space held between head,
heart
and bone.
It’s broken.
There’s no casting,
no setting this into some
perfect,
permanent
standard pattern.
Let it place itself
into the alignment
that feels itself
into position.