Soft

It’s a character I grew up listening to,
a silly face.

Funny how funnies always water
the night terrors down.

Oh, I’m not ashamed that I need them.

Don’t you dare tell me
what I need to be ashamed of.

Did you notice that?
Everyone telling each other
what shame to feel?

The world is a heavy sponge
filled with shame.

Someone wring us out.

We dream about former love
people, places, things,
love that almost was
then drown ourselves
with static versions of it.

Does anyone know anyone anymore?
Does anyone accept that the people
we love will inevitably change?

If I told you I was different
would believe me
or would you judge me by
my surroundings?

Please tell me there’s a few out there.
Are you out there
in the ethereal disconnect?

Create, just create,
that’s all I can think.
My concepts of children
are always half born.

I’m a chaotic machine,
but when you tear me open, you’ll find
fur, felt, lint, stove top stuffing.

I soak in the bath for hours
until I’m soft, soft.

Blueberries

The blueberries were on sale.
Hundreds of containers sat on a table
in the front of the store,
over-ripening,
simply wasting away.

I placed the abandoned fruit in my cart.

They’re best when left in the freezer,
less mush, more tart,
but I’m eager to try them.

My bird helps me, picking up her deflated
piece and setting it down into her dish.
She clicks her throat in approval.
Her beak looks like it’s been stained with ink.

The whole world is not in my hands;
it’s a pale blue dot I roll between my fingers.

 

Through the Roof

The tree outside my window
with its decaying crabapples,
jaundice yellow leaves, and
the garbage bag the roofers
left behind, claimed by the wind,
now streams from a branch.

A black cape without an owner,
it waves goodbye to summer
when there was a man in every
window. They wore shoes
made of thunder, and they
stormed us from all sides.

Drilling, hammering holes,
peeling pieces off our home.
The deconstruction, a slow,
agonizing exposure, took days.

I awoke to knocking, sideways
picture frames, couches covered
in debris rained from the skylights,
and man crashing through ceiling.

Linden

The sign says Greenspire Linden
It tells you the tree is hearty,
built to last in urban areas.

I’m as wild as a horse
in suburban ones.

We don’t belong here
in the middle
of impeccable lawns.

I crush the thought,
a mosquito that bit
through the protection
covering my arm.

I tell the thirsty
to please be quiet,
so I can surrender
to strength in silence.

 

 

 

 

 

Monarch

36794354_10217377976506330_22360463031402496_n.jpgA tug on the leash,
my dog veers left
back in line,
back in tune
with pop rocks
underneath her paws.

Insects swarm, gossip
about warm blood.
Eggs on leaves
ready to hatch
and talk the talk.

Have you heard
the blackbird
song? It’s a
distraction
from the way
things are
and were.

The other day,
I saw a message
of fear nailed
to a tall tree.

It said remember,
remember all the
terror, and the fall
of man is near.

Monarchs are
everywhere
this time of year.
Made of poison,
with colors
meant to scare.

How can such
fragile wings bear
heavy warnings?

 

Nesting

A barren nest sits
in the tree
outside my window.
It’s a vacant hole
I fill with a baby owl
we once saw in daylight.
Its mouth opens
and closes, hungry
for whatever meal
its mother has to offer.
I fill it with fettuccine
I make when you’re gone,
when I’m missing you,
the opposite of you,
and everyone else
combined into one
larger than life you.
I fill it with water
spilling over the brim.
I fill it with pages
I wish would fill
themselves,
explain themselves
to the noiseless days,
when silence balloons
in my ears and chest.
I’d fill it with buds
but it seems
they’ve blossomed
into paper flowers
overnight.

-3°

A warm winter
fades into cold
that steals the breath
of my breaks.
I fear the front end
of my life for a second
as I pump the pads
with the foot I wish
was in my mouth
where the words spill.
My close call is the sound
of something fragile falling
a flight of many years.
A muffling in my ears,
the whispered sayings,
are reserved for underwater
staredowns with you
when we test the weight
of each other’s silences.
A whiplash of wind
against my cheek
outside your city
apartment. The frozen
water bottles on the floor
of your car about to explode.
When you drink, I watch
the seams of your throat.
It’s so cold, and I love you.

This womb

The woman curled
up in a bath
remembers a woman
in bed
in a white room
of her own undoing;
a body tight as a fist;
a mind unraveling
like a scroll.

Maybe smallness
is our way
of making our way
back to our space.

The ultimate cradle.

My hands droop
in the water
like flowers
with bent necks.

“Choose the life
laid out in front
of you. Feel its
aliveness. Its
calm vibrations,”
calls the woman
in my bathroom.

I want to believe
that my body
is a field of
green energy
but my eyes,
catch a glimpse
of white room,
porcelain tub,
walls made of
chalky plaster.

My chest falls
as she asks me
to concentrate
on sincerity,
on what is
important to me.

I reach for
my yours truly,
my serious
what is love face.

Should I reach
for what’s to come?

My body floats,
and the room hums.
The heater turns
on and off
like raspy
breathing,
but breathing
in and out
nonetheless.

This womb
is filled with
warm water
returning me home.

Believe in baths

If God is water, then Sundays
are reserved for soaking in the tub.

The bath salts fizzle and crack,
I hear the snap of the candle —
this one’s called cashmere plum.

I pump my legs like riding a bike
against a lukewarm tidal wave,
hoping the words will come.

I guess I’m thinking too hard,
so I focus on the follicles,
proud and stubborn,
protruding from my sweating flesh,

and the candle wax drips.

I swipe my razor,
but the soap is misleading.
it’s not enough
it’s never enough

paving the way to a perfect shave.
(I still feel the sharp parts.)

And then it occurs to me
that every bath is baptism.

There’s so much left on
this earth, in this tub
for me to accept.

No one is ever loved enough.

After the great plunge,
I sit up, drenched
and heart-quenched.

I latch onto my elbows,
hug my knees,
these knobs
are not smooth or soft;
but they’re something to hold onto.

I bend my spine crane-like
follow my folds,
trace the watered down lines.

Total body stretch

Alexa and I stretched today.
She laid out a blanket on the floor
in her room.

Her room is blue.

It’s covered in photographic memories,
discolored thrift finds
worn by use and age
and someone else’s hands
that handled these finds
from time to time,
in coming and going.

We grew up a little in this room

and stretched alongside a woman
on a screen.
She wore tube socks
that covered her entire calves
and grazed her thighs.

When she pulled her limbs,
we pulled ours.
When she rolled her head,
we rolled ours.