How to leave a good man

How do you leave a good man who loves you? 

How do you leave when he doesn’t hurt 

but, you hurt nevertheless? 

—when he holds you 

but, you keep falling right through his chest? 

—when his words cradle 

but, don’t cause earthquakes? 

—when his promise is a fortress 

but, all you want is home with oceans and skies rushing in through doors and windows wide open? 

—when his love, only loves 

but, does not see. 

—when you know he will stay after breakfast 

but, he will never dwell your secret wells. 

—when he looks at you 


but, you remain a jagged mountain 

because embracing only makes things worse. 

And hope, is only as foolish as fear. 


So you stay hard, 

you stay ugly; 

and you let your life get blown along the currents of Venus and Mars 

while the rest of them throw rocks at your feet, hoping you will get back in line, 

or run. 


But, you stay still. 


You leave him. 


Because, if not, 

he’ll be the death of you 

and worse, 

you, of him.


Image—Lilith by Josh Brandao


Because we’re all satellites

Because we’re satellites

set free in motion by the want of life,


we drift,

we encounter,

we love,

we fall under.

We collide,

we cry.

We drift apart,

and fly far out

until the leagues in between 

dissolve the ugly,

and aurify the pain.






When the satellites cross again—

as if by chance,

as if new,

as if it was meant to…


As if.


Until then.



Image—Orbit by Kate Banazi


An important deduction

Love, let’s break us down,

into logical things, into probable things.

Let’s ask why our paths crossed behind the stadium that night

and how much magic your mouth put into mine when they wound up.

Let’s be ruthless for once, and analyse how far we can make

it might save us in the end.


I’ve had dreams where I see your back melting into a crowded place

You didn’t mean to- I know,

life just dragged you along the riptide.

It happens.

All it takes is, nothing.


If you go,

there’s one good thing for me.

I will be free to become the worst thing

to walk this Earth.

I can let go the ugly thing in me

and let it burn every beautiful thing down to the ground

hounding town after town.

If you go,

that’s the plan.

Always have a plan.


I will consume us. Isn’t that what the astrologer said anyway?

-that I’ll bring your end?

But, you’re still here.


I’m still here.


If you stay…

I don’t really care much about anything else then…

everything goes. I’ll even grow a traveller’s palm in our garden.

But, for how long, my love?

If nothing else breaks us, our own bodies will-

we are a treacherous species.


Love, what would we do with ‘forever’?


Image – Minna Keene, Pomegranates 1906. Royal Photographic Society



What can biology do?

It’s only an imprint.

a frayed old predictable thing

lying between layers of skin; too hearty

to touch matters of the soul,

too heavy to hold how far light can go.


I’ve been told I’m quite something;

too big to live a life beating between two ribs;

too big, too special, too free,

too immortal to be

tied down by a biological imprint.


But rain clouds ripe and ready to spill,

swarm and froth at my hills; boding

to howl, crash and storm


not returning her telephone call.


Mother, we spoke last week,

and since then the world has remained still;

I hate work and you baked something new again-

lives roll as raw as noon TV.

Under the tier of cherry icing

I know you’re as tired as me.


Tired of watching our shine fade,

from fierce gold to sullen grey cold

and the weight of our sweet and sour

woman souls.

It’s the same tragedy, the same famine

that lives in our cracks and imprints.


So, mother how can you fear

that the winds will blow us apart?

I can only fly as far as the biology

of your heart.



Image by Carrie Mae Weems