Offering


Fill yourself with the
Fruits of my body, which have
Been given up for you,
Swollen and split under
The smoke of cloves that
Hangs like garland in
The crooked, gray light.

I have no insides, I am opened,
Spilling over, drink me and
Read me like tea leaves
Where gods have written your
Fortune into the freckles
On my back, into the hairs of
This pale neck that bends
Like a parched flower with
Its roots broken,
Wrists turned upward.  

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©2017 Scarlett Sinclair. Designed by Black/Ash Consulting.

A Poet Begins

Hello, dear friends, and welcome to my Writer’s Room.
In this space, I will endeavor to share largely unedited and off the cuff poems, thought fragments, and contemplations with you.

Everything you read herein is my original work.
If you had desired to see a bit of my art and share some private thoughts, this is my answer to your queries.
Please enjoy the journey.

Our synapses branch between us
Like strings on a harp
That strum and create color notes
In our soft tissue
And that is how
For you, my love,
I become your masterpiece.

 

Want to stay in touch? Sign up for my mailing list!

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E-mail address:  

©2017 Scarlett Sinclair. Designed by Black/Ash Consulting.