4.29

I keep coming back to the night when I got hit in my head with a rock the size of my fist by a boy named Keith, he had blonde hair, too. It was dusk and we were sweet with sweaty faces from the day; running up and down the driveway, picking blackberries until our fingers were bruised, putting our ears on the black dog's belly to feel the puppies kick our cheeks, and telling stories about the basement Jabberwocky, who I always envisioned being a walking tree. He felt bad, probably got the dry throat for not crying. I bled, a lot; mom took me home, washed my hair and looked for ticks among the bloody strands.

4.29: a lesson

Taking off your bra on his parent's couch right after
homecoming doesn't mean you're cliche,
it means you're horny and probably
you don't know what to do about it.
Choosing to drive your parents car in new grass
with a girl from your bus doesn't mean you're
rebellious,
it means you'll probably get hit with a flyswatter.
Making beaded necklaces on your bedroom floor
doesn't make you a nerd,
it means you're lonely.
Getting sweaty with a black haired boy
in your hay barn doesn't mean you broke
any rules,
it means, sometimes, you just want to touch
someone other than yourself.

Thinking of these things with a swollen heart
doesn't mean it gets any easier -
it means life gets progressively
more difficult.

4.28: Acrostic

Let's talk about your existence - the
Only proof are two
Candid shots of you looking very sly.
Harvard wanted to study the possibility of a
North Atlantic Sea Monster trapped in a lake,
Edging her way towards modern extinction.
Scotland boasts you as a monster, but I'm
Still not sure you're real.

4.27

I pointed to where the couch had been.
It was green and god awful and probably,
I told them, where you had tried to sleep that night.
I showed them where the entertainment center stood -
I saw some melted CDs on the ground,
probably Journey or The Eagles.
I didn't look, I didn't want to.
How could your CDs survive?
I showed them to the room where I was asleep;
we called it The Cold Room.
Remember? We had an Oscar fish
when i was 7 or 8, and it froze to death
in there - poor thing, it's tomb same as his home.

They told me to distinguish where i had seen you last.
The front door, i said, Near the front door,
walking out to the porch that, now,
was in pain under the sunlight -
charred and stripped of dignity.

I cried, standing in a tank top the color of a bruise and
fireman boots up to my thighs, pointing out our simple life.
I tried with fervor to explain the paralyzing noise
of a couch,
of a house,
of a life burning down all around me.
and how, that night, the air was sweet on my black face
and the concrete was lonely and cold on bare feet.
Everything. I told them everything.

And they pointed out where,
plucked apart by midnight flames,
they found your body.

4.26: chatting with brett, a thought on cruelty

On my way home, The Eagles came on. I don't like them, but my dad sure did.
And i don't know what losing a job has in common with losing a dad... well,
except the losing part.
it just seemed like a cruel joke.

4.26

I have nothing worthwhile;
no witty social commentary on having tits,
no uncomfortable, pithy metaphor for pain.
i can't write about girls who are sugary with nose rings.
i won't write about how the law of proximity smothers
meaningful relationships, robbing them of dignity,
attaching them to machines and inserting
polite but awkward laughs in social situations.
No soft light street lamp talk;
i sure as hell wont' croon about cherry blossoms
and carbon based beings.
I won't because i can't.

Today, i have nothing worthwhile -

except for a quiet black cat
breathing on my lap; curled like a
parenthesis.
And a blue eyed boy who won't
let optimism die with the day, who says he
loves the fuck out of me.

4.25: on getting by

First, keep breathing.
They say oxygen can help you remain calm.

Secondly, remember, if it's hard to breathe,
determine the reason.
Is it because you don't want to?

Then, realize that maybe you've lost
god somewhere under neath the grief.
If you're lucky, you'll track her down.

Lastly, please keep in mind,
this is not unique to only you.

4.24: a birthday wish

i told you once that i loved you with a love that can't be named;
it still can't.
it runs deep like a soul river.

it was there that one time we cried and cried
because that boy hurt your heart.

it was there when we yelled at each other for no reason
at all -

it was there swimming with summer draped all
around us.

it is there when we tell each other the secrets
we just can't bear to keep.

it's there every single day
it's still there, bigger than
an exploding heart.

i say it now -
but this time, with longing
hanging from each syllable.

4.23: lies i have told

sure i knew what i was doing.

parked off this country road near the creek i fished in once,
his truck was still on.
wipers going steadily,
radio on low.

i made a few moans
because thats what you do.
i nurtured the heavy breathing and foggy windows and
the idea that i was naked waist up.

he kept asking. and asking. and his hands were so busy.

finally, i told him i had never
felt anything like it

4.22

my eyes are tired like the day;
moving around, searching for
self preservation.

it's exhausting - surviving moment to moment.

strap a goddamned bow on my back and
craft my arrows from the sunrise.

i'm hunting
and protecting
and singing my song:

instinctively fighting for my life.

4.21

maybe this time around i need something a little better, more dignified;
a push up bra and red beaded necklaces won't make me motivated.
resting easy might require more than new jeans that fit
like heavy summer.
i'm not sure doughnuts, even the caramel kind, will do.
self-soothing techniques might work;
but i might need a breathing mantra that dates back
to the dead sea scrolls.

maybe i just need Lexapro.

4.20

that fiddlehead fern, she sings my song.

she's the dirt like me.

4.20

to whom it may concern:
it's been a few years past appropriate but i wanted to, finally and officially, submit a big Fuck you;
in other words,
an appeal.

life was abstract, an intangible idea;
a list of things to do,
things to accomplish but with no real grasp.
(i didn't even floss my teeth for god's sake.)

the decisions i somehow made were
far too big.
no one's ever ready, but i wasn't even close. as a result, in the wake, i was abandoned by hope
(or vice versa)
and filled up with paralyzing doubt and gritty guilt.

i don't want a re-do. i'd say i fared quite well;
regained some dignity and unearthed a quality so far out of reach.

i just wanted to clock my complaint.

thank you.

4.18

My mamow, a kentucky woman with a sweet twang and soft hands,
she told me once how she got the scar on her foot.

'doing wash at the creek, ' she said -
'i spilled some kind of acid on my foot -
it's not like it is now,' she said.

she was little, i'm sure,
choring for her mom, who was part cherokee.
in essence, with those little hands, she worked hard for my mom
who would teach me to do the wash;

whether or not it's in a river.

4.16

i have hips to prove it.
here they are, guys, wide and
rebellious.
my breasts, too,
tiny tea cups, but here nonetheless.

don't let me forget it.

4.15: fat poem

i wish i smoked.
maybe i'd be skinnier. or cooler.
standing outside establishments, tight jeans
and a cigarette stuck to my dry lips.

i'd definitely be cooler, but skinner: that's what i want.
not so soft in the middle.

4.14: to a tiny being

i kept making ungodly mistakes today;
all i can think about is you.

this is the day i learned you lived.

this is the day that meiosis makes me proud.

god-himself came on down and then
god-herself set those red-buds on fire for you, little pear.
and that man on his bike i saw today,
pedaling with something to prove,
he's like us -
human and
tiny and
so sacred.

everylastdrop of me looks forward to you

4.14: found

"There really isn't anything to do up here so it is boring. but oh well i guess.

be safe on your way home.

it just got done raining up here so now we have the nice smelling weather outside and cool.
it was 80 degrees before it rained."

4.13

i am going to lay my little body down in the mud;
i will gently give way to the earth.

magnolias will grow from my fingertips
and new grass will sprout from my mouth.

i will submit to the ongoing circle
and my mind will be at ease.

4.12: selfless

I am a filthy human being -
and by filthy, i really mean beautiful and earthy;
crafted cell by cell, tooth and bone
in my momma's womb.
and, of course, by womb i mean
body.

she loaned me her own oxygen and blood -
she let me live in her private space;
i felt her thoughts and smelled her heart beats,
she loved me like i don't know what;

and she didn't know either.

4.11: a thought

I listen to the clock tick away in between songs; sitting on our couch, I still can't believe we bought it despite the early 90's color palette. I did the dishes tonight, my hands hurt from the rugged water and the cheap soap we have to buy. Choosing not to sweep tonight is fine - I will sit. I will wait on you and think of this life we created.
7 million miles away, people are dying and wars are breaking the human race, but here, in our hazy home, our life moves on anyways.

4.11

let me press my face against the cold mud
and breathe in real deep -
maybe i will inhale parts of jesus,
maybe not.

4.10: a certain memory

your eyes seem to be getting tired -
or at least you think they are.
i can admit, that delicate skin hanging on tight
underneath your familiar eyes sags more these days
but that doesn't mean what you think it means.

you told me today,
you said,
that just because it didn't happen on tuesday
doesn't mean that it's never going to happen.
it will, you said, eventually happen.


so you're talking like that,
talking about being away from me for good -
now i need to say this to you:

one time, a few aprils ago, you told me about a cedar waxwing who took refuge from spring winds in your magnolia tree. you didn't know it's name, and neither did i, but you told me about the yellow tail and the crest on her head, you told me with such excitement - we wondered with a fast paced tone, what kind of bird could that be?

that day i knew:
your skin is my skin and no matter what,
we will never be apart.

4.09

let's do ourselves a favor and tear the world apart.

let's take off our shoes and throw them at the people
we talk about late into the night.

let's stand in the middle of a muddy field
with big expectations.

Let's run with the wild dogs,
sweaty and bursting with freedom.

let's hang 'revival' banners out our windows
and march around the falsehoods like jericho -
(and let's laugh when they don't tumble down. )

let's love each other and live life like an exploding heart -
let's allow that to destroy this world.

4.08

Jesus Christ - that night....

that night i decided i didn't love the boy who always wanted to kiss me.

i was proud of that. i knew you were going to be -
you told me earlier that day, with summer hanging heavy all around us, you said you liked him but that i was different from that boy.

you woke me up when you got home late.
i didn't get to tell you my revelation, but you told me yours.

you said you loved me.
you said you can't begin to imagine life without me and my brother; your life, you said we were.

you'd be taken with him - he's handsome,
like you
and smart and stout and so nice to strangers,
like you.

you told me you loved me -

then, you died.

4.07

hurry and rush -
please, don't be empty.

keep your voice down; jesus, you're loud.

and count your breaths to know
you're real.

4.06

This tight fisted anxiety has been a close side kick
since six.

I was small, had a tiny nose, little wrists and the blondest hair
this side of adolescence.

Inside: a bundle of angry bees SCREAMING and flying hard against my heart
trying to get loose.

A nervous little Nelly with snaggle teeth.

Here I am now;
bad skin, terrible fingernails and a flat chest -
still struggling with this son-a-bitch sad song.

I bite his face off;

he turns around and whispers some shit about
----mortality------
----fragility------
some god-damned gritty scare tactics;

Low Blow, I say.
But then,
as expected,
I stew.
And cry.

And welcome him back to life with the open arms he needs to thrive;
he even invites his friends.

4.05

Just because I have tender grass sprouting up from my palms and a lily for a halo hovering around my skull doesn't mean I'm dead.

These things still hurt -

4.04 (a reprise)

he still calls you by your nick name.

he told us of that cat you tamed for him,
the smart cat who forces the dog to groom her.

he stood outside his house.
he told us of his wife who did paintings
and was a nurse.

he told us about the river
that rages.

he waved to us.

he misses you.

he misses life.

4.04

that grass was so green
or at least as green as
two springs piled high.

that tree had serious lines -
it stood tall enough -
it bent low enough to be
close to royalty.

i stood on that grass
and i touched that tree,
close to where a squirrel
decayed.

those white noise flies flew
that old man, the one with the buzz cut,
he talked about his dog and his long life
fighting the river
the wind blew the fresh magnolias to the
east.

sometimes life is quiet.

4.03

i chewed on pieces of womb
to grow,
not really, but it seems likely.
i suppose that between the zygote and the bones
evolution happened.

(act 2)

my bones will end in the
upper core -
they will be white
and they will be mine,
but my "mine" will have ceased.
Instead i will live in everything,
I will be watercress
and i will be lead -
i am a highly fragile polymer
but actually,
im' a carbon based body,
with one foot in the good.

4.02

If i stand too long
these feet might
dissolve into the mud;
my tarsals might
tangle up in the roots.

Those are sturdy bones,
stocky and multiple -
but sometimes roots
get the best of us;
wrap their skinny hands around
and cry tears until we stay.

4.1

i believe my body
has come from mud.
before the thoughts
i think
were ever a bother,
my limbs were shaped by
rain.