My heart an old woman
skirt hiked up mid-thigh
as she slowly crushes
porto grapes with her
smooth bare feet
My blood is not porto
but magma rolling
sluggish as it cools
in a stream at the foot
of the calming volcano
though it still tastes of the grape

My head a red clay pot
my cerebrum soil, synapses seed
my hair grows thick and long
Dionaea muscipula
good only for consuming flies

My mind is quicksand
not even my mind can escape

My Spirit a Spirit
not a soul, covered
in soft feathers, deep
eventide tinge, with eyes
the color of the sky just before
a morning storm at sea

The rest of me is
as the rest of me appears
once a desire churning to burn
one day ash carried by the wind

DS Peters earned his MFA from Sarah Lawrence College in Bronxville, NY, and obtained his BA from UW-Milwaukee. He writes speculative fiction, earthbound fiction, poetry, and odd bits of non-fiction. He is a traveler, and currently resides in South Korea where he works as a professor and observes human behavior.