Sending poetry to the world
35 is
of the world
and not,
a stew of overjoyed
and discontent.
Maybe when I’m older
the balance changes?
I know when I was younger,
the scale slid far below
the line of happy; Things were so
dramatic then.
35 forms a crossroad,
a slow settling into your own bones.
Possibilities shine in the distance,
dirt glows under our feet
written 6.6.15
please leave me alone tonight
it’s time for me to tackle
the high mountain of my soul –
reach into the deep caverns of my heart,
pull out my deepest fear,
place it slithering on an empty chair across a table
set for tea for two:
i will wrap my hands around
heated porcelain, examine blue corneas,
take a long steamy sip, molting skin
talking and talking and talking
the truth spills out in a hush:
this snake suns in the shine
of my smile every day, this snake
sings merrily as it swims down
my arteries, quivering, alive,
i try to write it all down before i forget
but the words keep spilling,
keep cooling, disappearing,
the tea is over, and
i sleep more soundly than ever.
glitter heel club, long legs, glossed pouts landing like butter-
flies, party to party to party,
bobbed hair waving, mascara smudging, dancing drinks a haze,
glitter heels in hand, barefoot sidewalk home,
we sleep in glitter dresses dreaming, oh how twenty years ago, instead
ancient moms we’d be in dull shoes, flat.
I am a bird feeder. Come,
Nibble, Peck your fill.
Boorish beaks spill my
feed. Insistent birds
devour then shove off.
Swing me, cold wind, I’m
empty air, feathers lost.
I never thought of you.
I never imagined it. And I always thought you could create a life
Like you construct yourself,
In the dark, with your hands in the air of a dream.
But no. When it snows and is silent, bones are ancient with
truth like skies so cold all of us reaching our hands up in the dark
shudder in realization:
creation is not a quiet stuttering dance.
It is our stars bent on self-destruction, it is anything but a dream.
Waiting. Winter concise in tongue says,
“It will never happen. It can’t.”
Black birds chatty squeal
“She’s forgotten, she’s forgotten you” like
playground children in keep-away.
Wood floorboards beneath my spine reason
“Be content in memory, it is enough.”
I listen, and I wait.
Only the snowy owl, rare in visits, winks
“One day, one day. You’ll see.”
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