Thursday, September 29, 2016

"Rome is also built on ruins"
-Eliza Griswold

i still struggle differentiating
fever dream from memory, 3 pinches means
it tasted, means
palpable and quantifiable and real.
it would help if i had not 
been born out of my parent's love. 
kisses like hot wax leaving permenant welts of the places
we have touched, nothing seems to 
frighten me anymore, nothing seems to be able to kill me 
anymore; tiger striped
and untouched, my scars are birch trees
i am 
a forest. 
 
so, i walk the halls naked and eat chips 
unabashedly. when you learn to live alone
inside your own house, everywhere becomes
home. perhaps i drank from the fountain of life
accidentally;
Rome is built here, i am
built here.

Tuesday, September 27, 2016

i am always writing some version of a haunted house, 
creeping crawling phantoms, the things black puddles and dark closets 
are made from but
anyways
i am always writing a story with a better ending, 
one that does not taste bad, in which 
both characters do not have to die, in which 
one character does not have to die.
anyways
you have a freckle on your rib cage that looks like the moon but
a moon we have never seen before, like one
from another planet or something.
anyways
i keep finding teeth under my pillowcase
from the apology,
anyways
love is like an orgasm that doesn't stop
even after you start crying.
an apple too perfect
to eat 
or pick,
anyways
i went into a lake and came out covered in long brown algae fur
and felt like a wolf thing, baptized,
anyways
love is a jaw full of berries with the juice pressing past your teeth 
love is 6:59 AM when you are awake and waiting,
love is a bear's paw full of honey.
iconic 
and hazardous to health if licked, 
anyways
love is the invasion of japanese honeysuckle to america, 
leading to massive ecological crisis in which 
everything turned pretty
love is like something growing 
in the basement
even after the house fire.

anyways, 
i have no teeth and i miss you more than japanese honeysuckle, 
your ghost looks like the moon but
a moon we have never seen before and 
anyways
i am turning into a moon you have never seen before 




Monday, September 19, 2016

a conversation between the ship builder of the HMS Terror 
and the HMS Terror 
after the shipwreck is found
168 years later.


darling, they've
found you.

(jewel) crusted hull, (brown sugar)crumbling at each touch, you are the lazy-day 
kitchen kind of yellow, i gave you a name to scare the dogs away, they say 
you lay 
so silent under the ice that, 
if it weren't for those machines, those great big whirling radar guns pointed at your neck, you'd have never set foot (96ft x 54ft, to be exact)
back on this snow. they show me pictures of you
suspended, eerily green and barnacled as something that 
no longer has any use might become but 
i loved each splinter, you were the best thing
i'd ever done. 

i remember you chestnut, golden, young,
arm thrown over your eyes from the sun, i remember
you with a long cigarette telling me that
the ocean is so terrifying because it is cold.
i disagreed, said
the ocean is so terrifying because it is quiet, that i regretted
the parts of me that built you to face it. you said
do you have any idea the kinds of wars i have won? 

you were found in less than 70 feet of water, your mast
peeking from the ice like a stray toe from the bed sheet,
nearly pristine. 
they said that if we were to dredge you up,
siphon away decades of freezing salt,
get your skin in the sun again,
you might still float.

so i guess that means
i did a good job.

Tuesday, September 6, 2016

your hair is honey wheat, i hide my poems
under your pillow until Spring. 
sheets 
cornflower blue and somehow, always a 
sundress, everywhere, and somehow
always cotton 
collecting like snowdrifts in the front yard.

tell me the story about your wheat-gray braid
and the tomatoes in the back garden, 
how you can never reach the top shelf, how 
that is what i am made for. 
tell me that i will always taste like 
apples, home will always be 
baking bread. 

your pillow
leaves feathers pierced through my shirt,
so i think about you all day, the scratch on my neck like
a far off goodmorning whisper.
the cotton blows through the yard.
i come home to your arms, you bake us 
bread.