Separation
A strange sound stretches
through thick air - belly
to moon. She covers
her bare breasts with long
curls, kneels in dry dirt,
palm thorn in one hand,
fig leaves in the other.
Monday, April 9, 2012
Saturday, April 7, 2012
Yikes...I'm reaching tonight...but gotta finish baking for tomorrow
Blank
I sit here, pen in hand,
snacking on a box of
cheese nips and I decide
I have nothing to say.
So I turn on my iPod and play
some theta waves, but still,
my paper is blank.
As I eat them, I realize
their salty dryness
makes them stick
in my throat
like words
I force down
with water.
Blank
I sit here, pen in hand,
snacking on a box of
cheese nips and I decide
I have nothing to say.
So I turn on my iPod and play
some theta waves, but still,
my paper is blank.
As I eat them, I realize
their salty dryness
makes them stick
in my throat
like words
I force down
with water.
Friday, April 6, 2012
April 6th - Regret
Regret
The young wife lays
naked on the sand
wishing the moon
would shine its magic
on him, that he
would touch
her cheek
with his fingertips,
trace forgiveness.
The young wife lays
naked on the sand
wishing the moon
would shine its magic
on him, that he
would touch
her cheek
with his fingertips,
trace forgiveness.
April 5th - Coward
Coward
In my dreams, I
have walked
through
walls, visited marble temples,
hugged my
dead Aunt Anna.
I've flown so
high, I could see
the gentle curve
of Earth.
But I won't offer you a cup
of coffee,
or go to church
with you, or sit
and watch
the game with you.
Hard as I try, I
can't say the words,
I want you to
go.
April 4th - Dementia
Dementia
My mom is on the floor again,
one leg caught in the bed rail,
the other tangled in her blanket.
She is screaming, "something is wrong
with the moon".
I know I have to do something so I look
for answers in the shape of the clouds,
the tea leaves at the bottom of my cup,
even in the pattern of ants crawling
across her bedroom floor.
But deep down I know
she is a seed on the maple tree
spinning away
from me.
My mom is on the floor again,
one leg caught in the bed rail,
the other tangled in her blanket.
She is screaming, "something is wrong
with the moon".
I know I have to do something so I look
for answers in the shape of the clouds,
the tea leaves at the bottom of my cup,
even in the pattern of ants crawling
across her bedroom floor.
But deep down I know
she is a seed on the maple tree
spinning away
from me.
April 3rd - The Anointing
The Anointing
Once, a makeup loaded, friend toting, guy hoarding cheerleader,
invited me, a plain faced, miniskirt-less, boyfriend searching
loser to her home for a sleepover. Of course, I accepted
her invitation. My legs didn't dance with anticipation,
I didn't cartwheel across the lawn with excitement, I just figured
everyone deserves a chance. When she found out my brother,
Jack, was the lead singer in the band that won all the battles,
she started to cry and the next thing I know she's rubbing
my feet with olive oil and her mother's Chanel No. 5.
Once, a makeup loaded, friend toting, guy hoarding cheerleader,
invited me, a plain faced, miniskirt-less, boyfriend searching
loser to her home for a sleepover. Of course, I accepted
her invitation. My legs didn't dance with anticipation,
I didn't cartwheel across the lawn with excitement, I just figured
everyone deserves a chance. When she found out my brother,
Jack, was the lead singer in the band that won all the battles,
she started to cry and the next thing I know she's rubbing
my feet with olive oil and her mother's Chanel No. 5.
April 2nd - Autumn in Amherst
Autumn in Amherst
I know he is going to write
about the tiny poet tending
tulips and lilies by the glow
of moon and oil
and you are going to write
about the love letters she wrote
to Susan, and the weed she grew
in her garden.
And me, I am going to write
about the two of you, how he soaked
in every shade of you -- red and gold
and orange, gave them back
to you in his smile,
how you helped him up from his chair,
zipped his jacket, how you cried
when two ruby leaves slow danced
to the ground, parting at his feet
like ruby slippers,
how I knew you weren't ready
to let him go home.
I know he is going to write
about the tiny poet tending
tulips and lilies by the glow
of moon and oil
and you are going to write
about the love letters she wrote
to Susan, and the weed she grew
in her garden.
And me, I am going to write
about the two of you, how he soaked
in every shade of you -- red and gold
and orange, gave them back
to you in his smile,
how you helped him up from his chair,
zipped his jacket, how you cried
when two ruby leaves slow danced
to the ground, parting at his feet
like ruby slippers,
how I knew you weren't ready
to let him go home.
April 1st - Secrets
Secrets
I am a child again, alone on the swing in the back yard,
watching ants in tall grass crawl underground, a break
from the scorching sun. They are smarter than me,
because I will sit here for hours, let the blazing rays
burn my bare skin, and tonight, when the coquis sing
praise to the dark, I will cover my ears with blistered
fists and beg forgiveness
because today I miss the cold winter nights, the frozen pond
where my cousins and I skate until we can't feel our toes,
my uncle Joe's ridiculous jokes, my grandmother's peanut butter
fudge, her soft hands, even the way his rough nails dig into
my bare flesh.
I am a child again, alone on the swing in the back yard,
watching ants in tall grass crawl underground, a break
from the scorching sun. They are smarter than me,
because I will sit here for hours, let the blazing rays
burn my bare skin, and tonight, when the coquis sing
praise to the dark, I will cover my ears with blistered
fists and beg forgiveness
because today I miss the cold winter nights, the frozen pond
where my cousins and I skate until we can't feel our toes,
my uncle Joe's ridiculous jokes, my grandmother's peanut butter
fudge, her soft hands, even the way his rough nails dig into
my bare flesh.
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