Braided Way Magazine

Some days, hasn’t the fat fruit
yielded all it can
from your straining grip?

Lay down the rinds–their pressed
and exhausted insides–
leave them–
let the bees feast on what remains.

The post Against ...

My mother loved history, which was for her less about the conquests of the great men than the outfits of the ordinary people. Our home was filled with books documenting everyday costumes through the ages—the hats people had worn, the shoes, the rising and falling hemlines, the expanding hoopskirts, the drape of cloth, the textures, the colors. “What goe...

I’m still searching for a Word

to describe what it’s like

to discover the sky in my body

between two breaths,

what its like to swirl through

the blues in my rib cage,

I have always loved words. In childhood I played newspaper reporter, interviewing the cows and chickens on our farm about horrific plane crashes, devastating tornadoes, and nefarious criminals. I would then take my notes to the newsroom – my second-story bedroom – and hunt-and-peck them out on a light b...

…you must steal your cards or be cursed

In bookshops, like jewels
in glass cases, they’re locked up,
wrapped in wire,
alarms on their backs—

Moon Deck, Shadow Deck, Deck of the Golden Path.

Only for the foreboding
avatar, the lit archetype,
queens from mythic dreams
will the despe...