My blades catch the light from your wand. Dear prince, master of the noble serpent-steed-- I feel your flames on the edge of my blindfold.

Singe the fibers. I know you well. You'd never harm the flesh, not where the sparrow yearns to make her home.

As your queen, with the widest eye, I am bound to tame beasts of my own. In earth and fire hues, we claim it all.

And in the midnight

I clutch handfuls of my petals

Hair stuck along my brow

as I weep into rivers that

threaten to meet the brine

through which we rushed

That rush, I liked

for a time

Salt withered and dried my skin,

and the eager, petulant sun

blinded my practiced sight

I grasped for the bouquet

bouncing along your saddle

but it too had withered and dried

That loss, it teased

my childlike grip

Through an era I descend,

memory rushing past my ear

but the Fates, they catch my fall

with transfigured ancient earth

The Fates, they watch me crash

Eyes like star-shine in disguise

Lover,

In the echoes of victory, I hear your name

argue with its hubris as your sly nobility

lingers about the isle- the

Worldly Prince's poor disguise.

Ancient glances catch across the glass

and conjure crows along the gateway

Secret Muse, softly dreaming

in the quiet shame of midnight.

With the wisdom of a century,

I pour your cup into mine, and

crown thee King, our Royal Majesty

of Passion and its impish woes.

A puff. Exhale. Then another puff. She frowned at the smoke trailing off into the stars.

"I thought you quit."

"I quit for three whole weeks."

"World record."

He rolled his eyes and threw his cigarette into the dead bush nearby.

"Happy?"

"You didn't put it out."

"I didn't put it out."

"Ricky, that's basically dry brush-"

"Relax. It's supposed to rain or something. It's late. Morning dew will get it. I'll even piss on it if that'll make you happy. You worry too much, Ser."

A small, pathetic wail came from inside the house. Ricky, moving past his long-time girlfriend, pulled open the screen door. As he walked inside, he wailed loudly, mimicking the tone and cadence of his son. Serevina rushed in behind him, ready to tend to the newborn.

"Relax. I got it."

"Are you sur-"

"Ser. Sit down. Have a drink. There's beer in the fridge if you want one."

"Did you wash your hands?"

Ricky, unresponsive, headed up the stairs into their son's room. Serevina sat on the couch staring into the darkness of the stairway, eavesdropping on Ricky's interactions with the newborn. After a moment, Ricky left the nursery and wordlessly swaggered to his girlfriend's bedroom. Serevina waited to hear the thud of Ricky's body onto the mattress and then followed his steps into the nursery.

As if on cue, the infant heard his mother's gait and wiggled within the tightness of his swaddle. RJ spat out his pacifier, chewing on his hand in between soft, desperate grunts. Serevina lifted her son from his bassinet, took a seat in a chair on the other side of the room and guided the baby to her breast.

As Ricky Jr. nursed, Serevina craned down her neck to kiss his head. Mixed in with the inexplicable sweetness of infancy was a touch of lavender lotion and the unmistakable stink of discount cigarettes.

The season of growth moves us all

rapidly, slowly, sometimes

a little at first then maybe a lot

The sickening lurch of death subsides

and we rise, and rise, and rise again

taking toward the late March sun

And as the petals open, dreamy and aloof

Father Time convenes with Mother Earth

Old lovers, sharing a wink and a smile

My daughter's birthday is near Easter. Her NICU stay ended around my birthday, which is Prince's birthday. My husband, Halloween. My son, Valentine's Day. Christmas, when my in-laws split (temporarily). Memorial Day, when mine did the same (permanently).

Days created for other reasons. Days for other days. Days of secret celebration. Days for private funerals in the darkness of the hillside.

Today, I've decided, is a special day, a celebration of clarity. Of bliss. A day to sit with everything.

A day that is a gift from God, not to me, but to the Reaper.

I watch their exchange, smiling.

I came into this world two days late, mad as hell. My parents were nine years too far into their marriage. My mom was two years from an overdose attempt and my father, five years from a decade-long disappearance.

My grandfather-- who would later assume my dad's role-- had the quirk of nicknaming all the babies born into the family. Sometimes it took a while, as he needed time to reflect on looks, personality, and memorable moments. Then he would christen them with whatever he found fitting. But mine came in an instant. As I screeched in my mother's arms, wailing in protest, nostalgic for the void, her father pulled me into his age-spotted arms and I settled, growing silent in his embrace.

I like to think that my soul recognized his, that there was some part of me that carried an innate knowing of the traits we shared. But that's a story for another chapter. If you're the skeptical type, then it's a tall tale for another time. My Papa looked at me, and I looked at him, face still flushed with the remnants of my tantrum. On that Tuesday afternoon in the late Southern spring, my nickname chose itself.

Screaming Redcheeks.

Papa was the only one who called me this, and usually shortened it to Redcheeks, rarely calling me by my given name. There was even a paint stick with SCREAMING REDCHEEKS scrawled onto it with a fat-tipped Sharpie, kept atop the china cabinet for the days in which I lived up to my namesake. My tantrums became expected, routine even. I was set off by nearly everything, even trivial matters like the dog not listening or an especially tricky level of a computer game. I was (still am) argumentative and questioned the validity and authority of everyone and everything.

With my history, I find it strange that others describe me as calm or stoic. I was noted as being a polite, intelligent, and motivated child, though that sentiment decreased dramatically in my teens. Anytime I'm complimented on my nature, a montage of screaming fits, unfeeling language, and brazen manipulation flashes through my mind. I think of the year I smashed all the Christmas ornaments during a tantrum, or the time I threw a dining room chair at my mother. I see my children's worried faces and my patterns repeated within them. Then plays a vision of my marriage on the rocks, with my husband wavering on the cliffside, peering into the depths of Irreconcilable Differences.

My temperament breathes in dualities. There's a consistent ebb and flow, tempestuous currents of mood and mentality. There is understanding betrothed to denial. Warm embraces are frozen in a duel with cold calculation. Within hope lives hopelessness. In the absence of mania, comes depression.

I am Screaming Redcheeks. I am Marissa Wolfe.

Somewhere, within the gray of black-white polarities, there have been touches of silver that slow the pendulum just enough to offer glimpses of what healthy, happy, and hopeful looks like. Just enough to strive for. Just enough to snap the paint stick and depart from the path of rage. Anger is birthed from sadness. Sadness is birthed from pain. Pain roots itself, unyielding, into the grooves of the brain and chokes out the chambers of the heart.

And yet, it has been my greatest teacher. My greatest motivator.

The flame-soaked phoenix wails to the heavens, wondering why she's been forsaken, but within her scattered ashes is the chance to start anew. She reforms, entrenched in her cycles, and cries a different song, more knowing than the one before.

There's a familiar back and forth,

at the same age, same situation

A reflection casting backward

into the frost encrusted months

of nineteen-sixty-three

Somber eyes that watch chipped polish

trace the texture of a belt,

test its strength

From the past, she stares, for

she knows the story--

she wrote it herself, once

(and once is all you need, if you're good at crafting tales)

--and though she whispers that

some stories should not be told,

these Plathlike machinations

are owl's talons that crush

the whimpering heart

"Did you know that someone wrote "Fuck you all" on that brick up there?"

The nurse followed my finger up to a shockingly high point on the brick pillar to our right, scanned the waxy scrawling, and let out a heavy sigh.

"Yeah, there's some crazy stuff up there." She pointed her pen toward the bulky brick pillars scattered through the common room. You'll see a lot of it around here. Some people even write their actual names and phone numbers."

"I did see a good joke over there." I pointed to the pillar on our left and read the words out loud. "What's the difference between a dirty bus stop and a lobster with breast implants? One's a crusty bus station and the other's a busty crustacean."

The nurse and I shared a gentle laugh and reflected on creative, damaged minds, as if we were strangers making small talk. This was just another day at the office for her. I shared a similar sentiment. She opened up a red folder and slid it across the plastic table.

"This is a copy of everything that you've signed so far and just some general information about how we do things here. There are some personal items that you weren't allowed to keep, which you'll sign off on later. We have your valuables locked in a safe in the administrative office and if you need access to your personal items, you'll have to ask one of the nurses. You're not allowed to have your phone, but you are free to write down a few numbers out of it We did have to take your bra, because of the underwire, but you can have someone bring you clothes or anything else you need starting tomorrow. "

The nurse pointed to a highlighted four digit number on one of the sheets inside the folder.

"This is your code, okay? So anyone who wants to call you here and check on you has to have this code. This is the number for the nurse's station. The phones are shut off during group and mealtimes because we want to encourage you to go. They're turned off around 9:30 at night and are turned back on at 7:30 in the morning. "

She turned her attention to the smartwatch on her wrist and then peered over my shoulder at the plexiglass encased office in the middle of the open room.

"Looks like it's time shift change. Do you have any questions for me?"

"Do you guys have snacks or something? I haven't eaten since about 10." It was 7:30 at night. Now that I'd calmed down, my appetite had returned.

"We might actually have a plate leftover from dinner. Let me check with one of the girls and see if we've got something for you. Go ahead and have a seat over here." She gestured to a a grouping of tables and chairs nestled in front of a large flat-screen TV encased in a heavy-duty plastic shell.

I struggled to pull a chair from underneath the table. The nurse said all the chairs were weighted, so that they couldn't be thrown. The first of many reminders as to where I would be for the next four days. She said goodbye, and that I would probably see her again in a couple soon. She walked away, sneakers squeaking across the grungy tile and I shifted uncomfortably in the weighted chair, exhausted and vulnerable, my armor cracking further with each passing minute.

hunched

in the corner of a room,

in shack just north

of the highest mountain

on a lush hill, that hill

the one square within

the eye of god

gnashing

wiping crumbs from whiskers

alternates, gulps wines, continues

the bodies bake in the heat

the pungencies draw near

the lord's leering gaze

weeping

the woman in black

hair pinned to her crown

sweeps coins from eyes

mumbles words unknown

receding

the eater chases wealth

into the darkened valley

diminished by His watch