Thursday, January 28, 2016

tell me a story about the wisteria vines and how they
hung around us like bunches of plump grapes. how my head 
smelled like sand and wood but not 
sandalwood, which is very, very
different
according to the storybook drawn on my back
with a finger, of course, we all know
that none of this
really happened, i was busy at a desk. i was wrist-deep 
in a thesis, i wasted
some of my best years in Graduate school, wasted
the chance to catch up, working for 
nothing, working for everything, fulfillment is 
fulfilling
but my stomach is 
empty.

tell me a story about being human, how we compared knee caps to see
what kind of creatures we really were, to see if the ingredients were all the same.
sandalwood and wisteria and chipped front tooth, 

wasted
some of my best years in Graduate school, wasted my chance to 
catch up, when it's all over
i'm scared that 
i'll be too far ahead.

Tuesday, January 26, 2016

my brother taught me how to cradle "suicide" in my hands, 
how to feed it silence 
like long worms into a gullet.


the other day, my therapist told me that i should subscribe to her star chart. 
the other day, my therapist told me that i like birch trees because 
they have scars too.

my survivor story tastes like vinegar but i
scream it from the roof tops anyway.

Friday, January 22, 2016


the crack of my bones in the morning like
the snap of a twig, underbrush, dry leaves crumbling and giving way 
to deep moat footprints, no,
pawprints. 

there is something inside of me that needs 
the woods, young and feral, crouching with barefeet.
the way my nails were more dirt than not dirt (very un-lady like), the way grass tasted
still wet from the earth, the neighborhood women staring at my 
tangled wheat hair, (what, were you
raised by wolves?

curling under the snow or 
panting with breath, magnets in the blood that pull to the den. 
on the day of my Communion, i ran into the back field still
strapped into a dress, they found me two hours later 
half-way up an Oak (i swear, you're an animal, Rebecca)
a selkie called to the moor, 
sometimes, i just need to see 
my moon again.




Wednesday, January 20, 2016

the blooming over, bleeding into the 
edges like dye or 
    well, blood, i     guess. 
a smeared paw-print on chest like 
flag, like proud crest, like ownership saying
i belong to something bigger, i am a slave
to this craving.


Monday, January 11, 2016

on iron chef, they can make just about anything with 
just about anything, late-night television, 
trying to drill the thoughts from my head, behave yourselves for once.
suddenly 
confronted with it on a silver platter- "secret ingredient:
stuffed"
oh no, oh no.
"mangos." 
god, help me.

the ghost catches me half-way to the bedroom, 
i know what you want from me, you can take it.
she says, "go on, say your prayers, 
you smell like mangos,  
you are 
all 
mine."


Thursday, January 7, 2016

hands learning how to learn
again.
my eyes are the color of 
Thursday sky in April, the color of 
melted ice. Gangtok is a glacier 
in the Himalaya's
that is equal parts rock and 
water, i was going somewhere with that but
forgot, half way through.
breathe in,
i always imagined walking through Howe's
Cavern together, i was going somewhere with that but
who knows, breathe in.
accept shitty poetry, 
breathe in, the boulders lifted from
chest, breathe in,
don't forget to 
keep breathing.
everything is going to be okay,
breathe out.
crave, swallow. 
my mouth made for ingesting,
knuckles clenched white, the color of the back of 
your eyes, crave, swallow, 
my therapist advises me 
to touch myself more. advises me to 
run into my own arms, advises me to 
not look back, not look forward, look
inside, dig nails to own stomach.
dig, dig, reclaim it, remove the flags and set
my own.

in the nights, i see you spread out like a 
buffet, i see the shake, i see the fullness, i know
i am too clumsy but in those moments
i was closer to a god
than not.
crave, swallow, my hands
possessed 
by another's. 

Tuesday, January 5, 2016

honey,
the bees, 
my throat dry as a dam(n) river. 
left hand grabbing, moving, pulsing, pushing
the world far away. 
you visit the same stars
in orgasm 
that you do during a seizure. 

the center of the earth is hot like a 
wood burning stove 
right in the middle, 
"show me where"

swallow the wave of new year salt, 
the drying and healing. the flakes 
pressed into the bottom of my boots, read
books that explain human beings, write articles 
that explain human beings.
explain everyone 
but myself, i have been lost in the wilderness 
for a very long time.


this last year has been a series of church fires, 
the wince of carving
new topography into an old map, wince of standing in an embered field, shielding 
eyes from the destruction 
i left. i used to think 
about a wooden cutting board all
frayed and yellow in the middle, something meant for 
hard-use being used, turning that varnish into martyr, the precious things
i twisted beyond repair. new year,
new salt,
it is time to start raking ash from the front year like 
quiet citizens, a warring country
burned into feudality. 
new year, new salt- 
air so cold that it hums. 
easing my body into the river,
i'm ready to be clean.

Monday, January 4, 2016


today the whole world smells like rain, like a frozen
hurricane. it is terrible-cold, 
it is freeze-your-bones cold, 
the soul is speaking,
the mind with fingers-in-ears-
i can't hear you i can't hear you

Saturday, January 2, 2016

when teaching me to scuba dive, my father always told me to hold onto the rope, "sometimes" he said, "we get too deep to see the surface, don't be afraid to follow the rope, i'll always be on the other side of it"

blind, grasping, covered in sea weed, i left the world
so broken, so messy, i am not sure where i belong, i'm not 
sure where the surface is, i am following the rope, i am 
finding where i left my body, i am breathing air into my lungs, i am
letting it lead me to where an 'x' marks the spot, 
where i can find
the sun. 
sadness knocks on the door.

not the vicious, horned thing that bent me in the middle, 
made me howl with grief. it is dry, 
it is the ache of sitting in a place that
no longer exists, pictures of fragile moments, i imagine them
in my grandmother's cabinet like figurines, 
the vast empty of a January corn field, sadness knocks
out of politeness only, i have been 
expecting him.