Sunday Things: Morning Rain Storm

My bed, an island of Eden
a silk tent raised
a downy castle.
The storm of the world shaking
all around us
the sky arching like a rusted metal sheet
while the torrential rain rumbles
your name
trembling its syllables into my marrow.
Your arms are a portculis of protection.
Your stones were each floated into place By Merlin himself.
I take it as a compliment when you call me Nimue
say I ride the storm like it is my own broom
accuse me of being your undoing.
But I have come
not to imprison you
in tree, in cave, in arrested state,
my love, I have come
to set you free.
— Sunday Morning Rainstorm, Annette Marie Smith

Sunday Things: Catalyst

Let your anger shine off of you like a well-earned sweat.
Let it oil your limbs for mighty endeavors
like that of hoisting sexism by its dirty neck
and throwing it like the piece of garbage it is
into the fire of purification.
Then take the ashes and give them to the restless sea
to mouth and gum over with constant chewing
and further breaking down and dispersing.
Let the fire-burned and sea-disintegrated ugly thing be so transformed
as to become a grain of sand, many grains of sand,
numberless grains of sand,
the likes of which could endlessly carpet a never-ending sea.
Let the grains of sand each become the impetus
for change in the hearts of the monsters
that lie all along the bottom of said seas.
These oysters shall be made to produce beauty
from the fine dust of your anger,
pearls of chafe and change that shine luminescently.
— Annette Marie Smith