Tayve Neese: Only Her Buried Hand Rises
From soil, the wrist and fingers are not bloom and stamen,
although the child that first found the rising tarsals
thought them something for picking.
October 28, 2023 · 7 Comments
Tayve Neese: Prophecy of the Four-Legged
The horned things knew
the scent of blood usurping sweet hay
as the woman cracked and sang.
October 20, 2021 · 1 Comment
Tayve Neese: Still, we wait for sounds of plumage
Still, we wait for sounds of plumage
in this world even angels shun.
August 2, 2021 · 2 Comments
Tayve Neese: At thirteen
Oh, Mariah, my life is now an apology
for how I forgot you, and let the tide
of my own life take me out to sea
when I knew that you needed me.
June 23, 2021 · 1 Comment
Tayve Neese: I believe in chakras
tankas and sonnets
are a species of orchid
December 7, 2020 · Leave a comment
Tayve Neese: Inside her muscle, a blossom,
This is what the tumor had done,
reduced the whole world to nothing
but metaphor
October 14, 2020 · 5 Comments
Tayve Neese: He says, it’s so shallow
murex shells teaching
wisdom of spirals
September 16, 2020 · 1 Comment
