Young Nyx

I meet her on a street corner in Brooklyn.

Turquoise hair, smoky shadowed eyelids,

Dark smudge lipstick cigarette.

She exhales a dragon.

She says she’s dying anyway,

and living, and dying again.

It never ends, like a labyrinth dream

like a myth.

I notice the angry scars on her wrists.

“Did it hurt?” I ask, pointing.

She shrugs and flicks an ash. “Doesn’t everything?”

“What was it like on the other side?”

“Same thing—dark and light.”

Young Nyx ©Angela Bigler 2020

photo credit: DarlingJack Smoke Break via photopin (license)

She and I

I am the poem goddess and

I dance on feathered visions,

fly above my little self

and send down birdsong wisdom.

 

“One day you’ll be a goddess

full of dancing, feathered visions,

you will be a poem song,

a strong and brilliant woman.”

 

When her hazel eyes get wide

I know that she has listened.

My songs live inside her heart,

she feels the goddess rhythm.

 

©Angela Bigler 2018

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photo credit: amber10_79 Angel Baby via photopin (license)