Monday, August 8, 2016

Only Howling

Walked out of the moon into tangerine glow.
Bodies twisted for bodies,
human heat for human meat.
Glitter glided on our backbones
and my coiled insides were bathed
in drinks named for Spain.

The energy was safe and angels took turns
being angels.
My limbs swiveled,
legs lithe and twisted round the bars
of a vessel for freeing souls.

"You were made for the cage,"
someone whispered.
The night moved forward a wild warmth.

There, where heart once was in my belly
and will be again,
an orchestra of other chords tugged
the way only longing and effectuation can tug at once.

I awoke that night.
I awoke at 12:42 a.m.
at a bar in the back corner half-sober.
I awoke in the vibrato,
affirmations wailing;
in the dusky smoke speaking truths.
I awoke that night.
I awoke spinning--
my eternal breath only howling, "yes, yes,

-e. chayes 

-erica chayes wida

Monday, October 12, 2015

Stale milk and honey

There is perfection,
when all along I thought there was
no such thing,
in little breath.
the way
a curled tongue sighs a quiet warmth
on your chilly Goliath finger tips
once again,
her exhale.
Uncharacteristically long lashes
curl across to form a bridge
from her eyes
to your's:
a holy moment.
a month-old-moment,
a first gasp of air,
her tilted head,
a million times over you would--
for that moment.
And in it goes,
whisping through a tiny passage
clouded by tiny particles
but clear from the cutting of spring.
you draw so close
her pupils turn to four
and one velvet cheek could nearly wipe the freckles
from your face.
Vowing to not disturb the half-second,
the process
where her Lilliputian whisper, every muscle turning,
is spinned to silk,
you won't breathe.
And out it comes
like the Santa Anas
from the mountain pass of her parted lips,
slipping through the valley
where it flowers and fills
your air with new breath,
scented softly,
stale milk
and honey.

e. chayes

Saturday, March 14, 2015


Petals flayed by ice,
foliage like scales
the rose and rainbow trout
shining in brittle dawn.
the ice cracks
mud egresses the crusty white ground,
a linea nigra on the belly of the earth.

a sign of two fish coil the frozen branches
locked in infinity,
crossing paths
from the melancholic cold of an east coast winter
to the wakeful but well rested
unfurls like curling horns,
the lion, the lamb, the ram,
mythical effigies on an in-your-face
stroll along the riverbed
putting 30 degree dreams to sleep,
the world turning on its back and waiting
for new breath to create a breeze.

the quail came like comedians
or chameleons
turning towards each other and turning colors,
turning tricks, turning water into wine,
or something sacrilege before the 3-day rise.
the march was mad and wild,
showering a birth that
rolled open the foliage
warmed the brittle dawn
erupted the white ground
with metamorphic molten humming, quietly,
under the mount for months;
it stirred, fluttering in the smoky mist and pools,
readying to light up the night with a scintillating cry,
tender and unequivocally human.

e. chayes