Fallen


It began when I transcribed
the temporal glint in his eyes
as light. Content with my
my own imaginings.

Quuck to accept my own deceit.
Hungry for a time only for desire
sliced in two.

I failed to noticed when he didn’t
take the knife
And how the sky dimmed as it gave
into longing.

The bruised fruit pulled from the branch
left to adorn the grave.
Now I collect the seeds that
remain in a mason jar

My heart painted blue.
My hands stained from
the pickings.

-Tosha Michelle

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The Remains

As the leaf whirls across
the the mercurial landscape
The wind sounding like
something injured.
Don’t chase it. Let it go.
The monochrome sky
knows lost comes
with each season’s transformation
None of us spared in the end
Why fret so?
Put on your wool coat
wander in the leaves that refuse
to vacate the ground
Make this a day best remembered not
for what has gone but for
what remains

-Tosha Woody

The Chill Factor

image

I just want a corner to lie
down in.

Pull the covers over
my heart.

Let it get buried in
snow.

Somewhere underground
where the coordinates get lost

A hideout from worry and the
slow burn out of life.

My calendar whited out.
My fingers too cold to hold.
My lips too raw to kiss the end note.

And I can live in the moment
before.

A frozen vessel alone
in the stillness.

My soul encased in a thousand
miles of Arctic air.

-Tosha Michelle

Sugar


Sometimes all I can think
about is chocolate cake.
Sugar seeping into my
parietal lobe.

I run my fingers through
your blonde hair, stroke your
teeth with my tongue.

We move like batter
Clinging to each other
Stumbling around the
kitchen.
Desire in an embrace

You flutter to my
fingers, and I beg
you to give away
the recipe.

Knowing how this girl
butters to Southern charm
and blue eyes and measures
her life in spilled
flour on the floor.

Going under in a
flood of batter.
Gluttony in a three
piece suit.

I dream in dark
decadence and open
my mouth and heart
to confectionary splendor.

Happy to get lost in
frosting, strong arms
hard kisses, and oven
baked seduction.

-Tosha Michelle

Windkept 

I am not she.
The view is not the same.
I sit by roses but don’t
see the thorns.
Even after all these years,
still full of the blush
of wonder

My air is warm, fragrant.
My heart speaks of
watercolor nights and
a breathless yearning.

I’m wild for you, but not
afflicted. I recite charms
through verse and song
by a bending light.

I speak in sunlight even
when the cumuli
starts to gather. Lying
face down in the grass.
Hope imprinted on my cheek.

My heart bleeds in syntax.
Just a gleaming of my
streaming soul. Writing what
touches me best.
Love. Fear. Happenstance.
A trembling mind.

The punctuation peppered
with sea salt and caramel.

I steadfastly sit by the ocean
as the boats drift away.
I choose e to contend with the
wind. Making a symphony
with the air.

Chopin playing against
the elements and tide.
Never just a passing note,
or a mere flash of a melody
burning or receding.

Here the pitch rings a psalm
of stormy serenity, a
rain-cleansed sun in a
perpetual state of grace.
The perverse strength
of fragility and hazel eyes.

-Tosha Michelle

And some music for the night 

Derailed


In a universe where the train of
knowledge is slowly coming derailed
And the footnotes of historical understanding are being written in Morose Code
where SOS looks more like SOOL
And the landscape is being erased
with swooping disregard.
Is there still hope justified?
Does humanity deserve revisions?
Hasn’t the plot been rewritten a
thousand times?
Maybe the story’s moral is
keep weaving until reason is found
Disappointed love is still love.
And a pen beating against a desk
can still be struck by the wind

-Tosha Michelle