child-bearerMy face no longer bruises like fallen
apples, because for the past three years,
she’s taken more to thunder.
She rumbles about moths in my head,
their useless flutter in my blood as they
make me earthquakes, my inability to react
hyperventilating as I try and puke them out.
She thinks I should be able to burn them,
but still doesn’t know me well enough to know
that I can’t even kill a spider, and that’s one
of the reasons there’re so many in the basement.
She still doesn’t know me any better than the airports
and therapy sessions, where she would meet me, then, anew.
I think maybe we’re due to meet again,
but I’ll be moved out and too scared to shake her hand.
I wouldn't call you holyI have an obsession with bridges—
San Francisco where I first held love, skyline-spine bending with my hands, muscles saying “I can hold you. And Him—and whatever else is under your breasts and skin,” and we sat with the waves and talked of how we were little ants and drowning in Chardonnay and time.
Then, there are the ones I’d make for you, in the mailbox on gloss-paper, my hair spilling over the floor in midmorning worship. You’d breathe me from the air, the contented sigh enough to unravel me in diaphragms. Then you’d lick me back to postage, and kiss away my youth.
“Add a cut for me, babe; next time you’ll listen—” the ball I made of pain, and the curl of dimples made from shame… and I almost can’t admit how I’d yearn for you erode me to my knees, again. (To this day, I still can’t bend the same, but a bridge is a bridge is a bridge, and I’m not looking for your feet)
and I wouldn't cal
sometimes, I'm a fireI like myself best huddled
between broken thought and sky,
when the sun stretches just tall enough
to ignite my hair in embers.
I pretend it makes me lions,
and that I can roar and smile, all teeth
and bones and not afraid of anyone…
but a glimpse of my reflection, and
I scramble under covers.
And sometimes when I shine a
flashlight down my throat, that’s all
I see: corrupted caverns and the ghosts
of pills burning through my vocals…
but I spat them out six months ago,
and I’ll be damned if I give in
so much again… but more than that:
I never wanted to be someone
defined by narrow features—
blue eyes too full of war and ice,
an explosion of acne scars and freckles,
which darken embarrassingly
in sunlight—but I’m just a cloudy day,
a quilt of third-degree sunburns and overly
hidden—safety—while I curse my mother’s
red-head genes, and the eyes of fasting men.
One thing I can say about them:
they never f
Dear Edgar Allan PoeMemory is a bridge,
and those brave enough to walk it
become Atlases ‘neath a sky
that only wants to fall
avoidance making hollow
the planks you tread, and your soul—
oh, your soul!—just a catacomb
of roots you could not plant.
Oh take heed, dark poet,
for pluming words do not create,
and raven minds do not support,
For memory’s a bridge,
and I have died a hundred times
trying to forget it.
droplets to dropI think I imagined my life.
One prayer spent, an angel held my mind and supported its weight... offered to steal me away in the 8th grade despite the fact I'd let him down in ridicule and silence. In that moment, I believed in God.
but God existed in everything and nothing, and it became hard deciphering the holy from the chosen. So I dined with sin one night when her lips were too sweet and I was too caged; she'd put her nails inside my poet lines, with a sadness too familiar I could only choke on disappointment.
A white-out later--lips left only a little less swollen than the eyes--I was hoping I was simply malnourished in weak-spirit... but you showed me it was a plague in man, a Passover of none, and the scream I let go strangled the last of hope in me.
at the breakfast tablejesus and sisters
not wholly in belief of
each other, and the biscuits
they leave on the white kitchen
counter still have two egg yolks
and a cooling cup of coffee.
love is not for fishmoonlit, cricket ears,
and a silence that’s not
really quiet but a crescendo
of heartbeats as the wind folds
them into stars, or maybe dust.
my spine was always made of dust–
crumpled sand and beached gills
no longer able to breathe the clouds;
I was more of an oil-breather, anyway.