You uproot the browning trees,
anger at the kidnapping of Persephone,
anger that everything grows.
Lightning flashing from your eyes
could be better used to raise Lazerus
or even a stitched together monster.
Better used to rake the dead into a pile
to jump into and feel the prickles of leaf wafers
crackling into your cranium.
Better to grab a handful of the intruding grass
and play God to the ants.
Run your pencil fingers
down the spine of a shady nymph,
who is losing her hair with every passing day
and wish she could spring to life
or uproot the dead.
She's wrinkled, sure,
and burned from the sun,
but she is smiling still
as you rip her arms off her body.
Remember the dust
from crushed leaves.
and inhaled by all.
ED AlphabetA is for anxiety, which you will have everydayED Alphabet9 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
whenever you see a girl who may be skinnier in some way.
And all the bones of your skeleton you see revealing
is B. What's scary is you find it appealing!
While you wittle your waist down to a size 23,
your control has been stolen (which is obviously C).
D is dying and you never think of that,
just as you can't see how you're not actually fat.
E, emaciation, eating, and extreme exercise
is all to get rid of your non-existant thighs.
Food, your enemy, is to be avoided with fear,
another F word, along with fasting, my dear.
G is the guilt you will carry all day and all night,
unaware or blind to how you're losing this fight.
H is a heart attack which is almost your fate
if you don't correct this wretched self-hate.
I, is yourself, whom you've hidden away
behind bones, lies and a wide array
of justifying this disease (no friend is this).
J can't stand forever, you know something's amiss.
But you'll forget again when K, keitosis set
MotherMother10 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Mother wakes at five thirty in the morning
even Sundays, though the newspaper hasn't been delivered
to me sitting at the top of the stairs.
She squints at me with Hitchcock eyes,
says that my bathwater is turning light gray, it's time to get in.
Sundays, we go to church, which isn't-just-a-social-thing-young-lady.
I'm here because I would neverever ask for anything else
if she bought me a dog.
It dawns, and her voice percolates my future, drip
drip drip, we say Scholarship.
I have a hard time knowing her
without her glasses
and her makeup in its technicolor glory.
She drives me to school every day, to save on parking.
Trucks and equinoxes blow past us as I stare out the window,
drawing pictures in the condensation with my thumb.
She says did you know that Beethoven
never saw the sea? Later we should go to the beach,
she'll show me a picture of a furtive flute of a girl
in a poodleskirt and a yellow-spattered room.
We can walk up and down the sand together