Firestorm Winds


Kiss me like you are grateful for me. That

I exist. 

Not because I am special, but because my flesh and blood are alive, now, on this
planet, because I chose you to heal me, because
I trust\ed you to embrace that honor,
and you promised you would. 

Kiss me like you want me, not want to want me; not
to prove you are worthy of love, not
to avoid loneliness, not
to feel you’ve won me in the secret war men have
over the territory of Cunt. 

Kiss me with cellular knowledge that I am the only combination of
the lonely bones entwined in a moving heap. Frozen in spacetime.
In an apartment, in the Paris of the Middle East. An address now
occupied by the flag of ISIS, 
                  joyfear, and gun
                  shaped fallacies. 

Kiss me in a way that honors the struggle
of the international incident that I am. 

Kiss me in a way that makes up for all the
               guilt, and secrets my
               existence spawned. 

Kiss me like you are grateful
for the spark
for the infidelity that

I am. 

Kiss me remembering I was once a child, conceived
around the corner from the now refugee-quarter. 

We children. 

We need to play,
{to be taken from the Truth of the species that we are.}
Kick the Can.
Hide and Seek.
Overtly, and intensely, pretend. 

Kiss me as if there is no end;
No climax
No satisfaction
There is now, that is everything and enough. 

Kiss me remembering
The luscious switch that turns off the noise;
Do you hear the noise?
Do you believe in the switch?
Do you need it as I do? 

Kiss me as an act of rebellion
our breath – the firestorm winds –
can reach the wounds of my
ancestors, reignite my land with

The Purpose. 

No power to own
No power to win
No personified missiles
No flags in territories
No covert operations
No pushing and pulling AGAINST gravity
No thrusting forward like a marathon runner
No winning the race, only to leave orphans behind. 

Sometimes my story is just my story,
My decades of walking.
Then I wake to remember that my DNA dances
with the story of distant

mes, of yous, of uses, of thems. 

Swaying in rhythm with each and every act
that did, or did not, happen. 
I need you to help me forget this burden, or
{i worry}
in my orphaned scurry to make it all go away,
I may very well forget you, in order to survive. 

This is what orphans do.
This is what survivors do.
This, then, is what I do.
{she is starting to wonder} 

This is not my wish, and it’s not up
to me. Nature wants to find a way,
for me to stay alive, to forgive
myself first, to survive. 

The firestorm winds are calling


Hokis is Founder & Senior Editor of Headline Poetry & Press, a regular contributor of Reclamation Magazineand writing coach with Root to Rise. In her remote location, she assists the founder of a local Moth-inspired community storytelling series. Her twisty worded work is most recently homed with Laurel & Bells, littledeath, and Heron Clan IV.  Visit her personal workspace to find out what Hokis means, read current works, et al. + TW | IG | FB.

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