Ancenstrybitterness about fathersAncenstry2 years ago in Scraps More Like This
is passed down across
my face contorts
in the same grimace
my father's face
when he talks about
it is not a cycle
of abuse, it is
it is something more
subtle, perhaps more
it is the number of times
late from work,
the number of days
missed from life,
the number of words
he did not hear.
it is the passive
withering of flowers
in spring, the
chilled descent of
quietude of a
death that creeps
up too soon.
i see his shadow
in every man's wake,
and i cannot escape
his stunted ghost.
reveal yourselfIt's taken me all this timereveal yourself1 year ago in Scraps More Like This
to realize that
the flowers in your hair
were actually weeds,
and your promises
were already broken
before you made them.
drinking ghostsSparrowbone, he called, stopdrinking ghosts1 year ago in Scraps More Like This
nesting Everclear: You’re bound
Oh, but a sparrow is too free
to be cut down by compass eyes
and weathervanes, and perhaps she doesn’t
need saving because she’s
all myself to you in puzzles and half-
tiles—which need squeezed into corners when
the dishwasher goes out and the new comes in—
and it’s supposed to be pure, but it’s so, so dirty.
(love is never beautiful long enough.)
She said you don’t have
to file your nails for poetry, but
I do, I do—oh how I do.
CompressWhen I was young, my motherCompress2 years ago in Scraps More Like This
taught me how to draw the curves
of a profile.
Strange to think, of course, that
the side of a head is easier to face
when I, as a child, rarely saw more
than the pointed chin of an adult
looking down their nose. How I
wished, so innocently, for her approval;
to know that she would love
the fruit of my juvenile efforts
so that I would always feel
her arms wrapped around the
angles of those brittle tooth-pick
boxes I kept for shoulders.
My father, she drew him once –
the silver gel-ink sketch still sticks to the
fridge door. Perhaps she feared
that I would forget him.
Maybe I would have.
Maybe I have.
And sometimes I think that nothing
has changed, that I’m still a child
with a hole for a memory, because
I’m still facing life side on, and
vying for my mother’s approval so
that she’ll never leave.
In the interests of transparencyIt's clear to seeIn the interests of transparency2 years ago in Scraps More Like This
that I'm as fragile
as glass -
and every time
that you look through me;
I crack up.