Twenty.

Here I am, twenty kilometers from
the nearest highway back south, exposing lightning to my brain like photographs that I’d forgotten; see when I forget, you remember in flashes, because I was young when you sang in dots and dashes.

Here I am, twenty years of post-womb pre-natal experience, floating in shore and sky like primordial pulp finding the moon in the pearly whites of the sky.

Here I am, twenty, hair wet from swimming in the sky, tired eyelids pulling over peepholes with a child who saw too much before she understood.

Here I am:

Hello.

novel writing.

light spans the sky in a band across the horizon
and above me, a breath of stars
exhaled across like static under a woolen blanket of darkness—
these stars are not stars but
specks of dust floating in the air,
like spiders ballooning out to catch the sky in their webs,
stretching legs;

tonight i am the way the wind chills my skin,
soft touches, little rushes,
hair raised in defiance when the cold pricks deeply
teasing the locks of my ponytail
as the waves lap the wind against the side of the boat,
skewing trees that reach across like hands towards my vision
but only here,

here is where reflections meet the light of nights’ noon,
where the smell of lake becomes the headiest perfume
and flames lick around the smoke, ravenous for a dream you’ve forgotten in the bottom of your cup—
sixty years from now and again
you’ll watch your wrinkled skin fold like plastic bags
and drink the coffee you never liked
and fall asleep to the crackle of a fire that burns the marrow in your bones,

and like we used to say
so many years ago at home:

goodnight moon, you tired stone.

Anonymous:
Kat Kon, I'm captured by your photography. Envious of your poetry. Interested in your chemistry. And begging you to become a part in my favorite memories

but who might you be? i will not be courted by a ghost

ella of the skies

imagine i had a ticket to anyplace else
and i left canada for the swiss and the alps,
would the sun touch every inch of my skin?
would the air rush through walls inches thin?

here the skies are pallid and purple and grey
like the skin of the pretty girls who sit home and play,
and when the trees scratch the sky like nails to the clouds
could i pull down the sun; would it be allowed?

tonight i’ll drink summer wine by the light of the moon
with sand in my pockets and holes in my shoes
and if you’re thinking of me with the thought of a rhyme,

don’t.

slow fade.
in division.
under mellow skies.
cloud cover.

humidity

in the summer’s haze
the clouds suspend in sunlight;
I cannot breathe deep.

awakenings

the sun blinks tiredly;
i watch a lone bird take flight
as the dawn uncurls

nomadic-mantra:

If you’ve ever doubted yourself, walk deep into any forest. Notice how the trees still stand even though they are given no recognition. Walk along any stream. The water still flows, though no one stops to praise it. Watch the stars late at night; they shine without acknowledgment. Humans are just the same. We are made out of the same elements as these beautiful wonders. Always remember your beauty and self worth. 

are any of you doing camp nanowrimo?