Poetry *
Poetry *
Untitled
I am unsure
Who once said
It is not great percussions
That will ring this out.
I am so afraid of
the brutal softness at 3 am,
when we speak
in the same hitching breath
of our first spring
and how we will open
our eyes to the walls.
It is a whisper,
horrible and quiet,
when all I’ve wished
is to be so tender.
But you have always
walked so lightly,
like you are always
already arriving
and it is simple.
How can I hold it all,
How does one breathe
knowing there is something
they still beg to carry?
I think you are supposed
to listen to that rattle
that says, become!
When I am thinking
about lungs,
I am thinking
of the secret noises
of the witching hour.
The draft pushing
the door shut.
I try to hear if your
sternum is straining,
pushing against your skin.
You open your eyes
to calla lilies
and chamomile.
This summer is not
one I will awake to.
But I think of the fall
when I can come sit
at your table and
you’ve made me steak
rare as you remember
I like it. And as I cut
into the ripe red
that spills across my plate
we can talk about
all those things
we were dreaming about.
FLOODING: SUBMERGING, SWAMPING, SATURATING
you are so naïve, evergreen
doesn’t mean undying.
myths swim in in the dimpled concrete ponds
and graze on the grass growing around the drain
in the middle of the acne-scarred ground
some letters retain their memory at any angle
in any size
the s of the STOP; of the curved bean pods
slithering, sunken,
soothing or scrap metal
but always s
she
rarely silent, even when lying next to another
curling into them
s is distinct
seen
spoken
remember when I
was the queen of the storm drain?
but only when someone helped
lift the metal grate off
and the lost sweatshirts and shoes we found
were oblations and offerings
Roadside Attraction, Southwest
You said you were loyal to the sinkhole
that abyss of broken glass and charcoal
Like your worn out smoker’s lungs
And all of the words from you they stole
You dressed it red tassels
also my old worn out pink bed skirt,
Laid it out along the edges of dirt
With its truisms and wine stains,
And a mandated rope barricade
[Refrain] You said you wanted to make the last time pretty
adorn the event with candles and cassettes of Pavarotti
So I will put on my black dress and my makeup
And stand in the back among the rarefied neon lilies
Then you invited in the strangers
watched them take pictures feigning danger
As if they too would fall into it
The landmark you decorated like a casket
And sold to everyone as a postcard
[Refrain]
You were loyal to your watch,
With swords and floral robes
Proprietor of this sinkhole
And silent sentinel
of my fogged bathroom mirror
Refrain
Lady of the Wild Things, A Tryst in the Garden
Rough boys, you are cold spine walking
Like sleeping with your window open at night
And letting in those specters stalking
By city streets, the psychoanalyst said
we move through the arteries of our dead
And the stark town, lovely boys, is ours
Our own time zone, hours
Of makeup and dance in the Garden of Morning
Dream uniform - word-of-touch
Before now becomes the callous then
Before we learn nothing is enough
A meeting in the carnival of melting
Where my favorite demons visit with me
And reptiles speak sweet like strawberries
And hiss like ghostly synth lines
And the stark town, lovely boys, is ours
Our own time zone, hours
Of makeup and dance in the Garden of Morning
You say, of course tomorrow, tenderly
poor sweet lady of the wild things
reptiles speak sweet like strawberries
And the stark town, lovely boys, is ours
Our own time zone, hours
Of makeup and dance in the Garden of Morning
II.
The word thundered through her dreams, heavy food and unconcerned. One moment she was vaulting over fences to escape growling dogs and the next she was stroking leaves off his face. In the light, she couldn’t express such tenderness. She spoke obliquely.
The picture of the white dress.
She runs with lace in her hands into the room where everyone waits to celebrate her. This time, the shadows smile with her.
Turning on the faucet is retreat. We wish to soak into the space between the white tiles on the wall. Leaving is new songs and silence.
We all have the memory. We all made the same gasp. The sound of knowing. We all felt the spirit fall upon us. We all wept without knowing the others wept too.
We answer that question for others. We are particularly sensitive to questions of the skin, especially when solutions are lavender and oils.
We wail too loudly and pay our respects too softly. Why must we be compared to fires when others are compared to gods? Our eyes, once stunted, grow allotropes