HONORA GREENWOOD

Honora Greenwood is a writer living in Minneapolis. She can be reached at little_eumenide@hotmail.com

--------

LOVELY DESERET

Councilman Cory, order here in Zion!
This is how it is when nobody knows.
Dirty snow that melts in a day and hasn't fallen.
Of course we get your leftovers in our fucking tundra.
The colder it gets, the more I need to pick at you like a monkey.
To bless and annoint and fade into you with my cliches.

Globe willows dying in the desert sun.
After I left that mid-June.

--------

UNTITLED

Glitter snow fell to wash away our sins.
Suddenly, New York's thermometer didn't matter.
Because I'm a girl, and you're a boy, all little.
In some way, we were making snow angels too.
Mesmerized by chunks of metal, across my river.
Billions of sparkled white flakes divided us.
Cut by quiet sweetness between our breaths.
In from my sleeping city, hiding under his stars.
To our mystical oasis of more glitter, tacky gold booths.
Warm tea lights giving off dirty veneer reflections.
I said look up, at volcanoed fixtures, dusty by years.
And all of the sudden, I could see you like an angel.
Lost under the hand of fear and surrender, rejected.
Naked sweetness of you and me and us.
Flowing into a shaky voice, warm and familiar.
Singing off key about gods and silence.
You said you could see me, and I believed you.
As your brown, brown eyes finally reflected something good.
And so now I am a part of you, just in our holy night.
Frozen and real.

--------

UNTITLED

Mandatory solitude shoved down.
With ivory keys tickled by strange hands.
Digitized and passed through wires.
Trees into soil or snow, as it may be.
Smoke, black against white.
And grey against black.
I wonder if stars really will hang.
Always.
Northern lights on repeat, for me.
It's okay here.