ALL RESPONSES |
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The horror
of isolation is
knowing you lack
something,
not knowing
what it is
until it’s too late
to look for it. |
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but still felt hard, scripted in flesh,
a loudness ringing. In the fall
the leaves knew best and went
into hiding; faces became bifurcated,
things undone checked off anyway,
and the parchment of autumn
became the frozen loam of winter
to spread what rumors it knew. |
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You who have always
known certainty have
sashayed through life
like angels unaware:
─ with scrubbed skin
─ with blond hair.
What can you know
of the power that peaks
in the breast and the
feeling of sudden might
one feels at the
moment god arrives
wearing archangel wings
and clear eyes?
(ok not god but a social worker
big brother big sister foster parent
neighbor nun teacher friend)
I almost pity you for missing it.
You who have always known
love likely missed its sharp
loveliness. You who have always known
are probably not writing poems. |
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All mothers age and look
for their own loneliness
They go through pleasant
moments much like a life
checklist: eggs, milk, bread,
affection
Their hours pass aimlessly,
gently—like small miracles
They fade quietly into time
and time is the only thing
that contains our love
And like all mothers, that love
waits for us in the next dimension
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Well, well, aren’t we lucky.
Another grocery list
completed.
Another thoughtful face
visualized.
Another little girl
swooped up by her dad
and given a big hug
and kiss on the head.
Another creature saved
by a word or a stroke
of the pen/ brush.
Another history
remembered to be
forgotten.
Another day
of fallen glory,
the ash’s yellowed leaves.
Well, well. The heart
overflows. It beats
in its red ink.
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Mom doesn’t necessarily
poem
she
puts her black and blue
ballpoint knees
against
the empty stanzas of
kitchen tiles—-
cleaning
in between
the lines.
The open book, the house
of her kneeling
is without
comparison
she alone is present,
without metaphor
cleaning.
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Smoke hung in the closets,
tore through the mattress
where no indentations
from a shoulder,
a hip, not even a trace
of your silhouette remained. |
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She remembers kissing him when he had braces
they never kissed
She mourns the last time she ate
something decadent, winged-leaves
melting between calcium razors and the
ridged-roof of her full and parted mouth
She bathes her face
with extra virgin olive oil;
her bergamot skin
she is pure—essential
extracted from root
She wants to be asked
to be told secrets
to be taken soft and wild
She thinks,
Fuck you.
I'm not done being drawn—
a glimpse in the eye of the artist
who blue-printed me.
I'm unfinished business;
the movement of a wrist with slopes of
charcoal on Canson Ingres paper.
For not falling in love with my lines
and curves
my erasure marks
my scars
my words and
my way
I'm unfinished.
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She sits on the bike—a Christmas present from
an admirer of my grandmother. Her twig legs
in knee highs and her bright bird eyes;
she has no idea how breakable she is.
No comment—1948
is written on the back
no one knows the struggles that will come.
It is just a brilliant white morning, the hush
of trees and winter, somewhere everlasting angels
sing, and now
it is Fall and you and I lie on the grass, in this we too
find something eternal. Your kiss, like the shadow of a bird,
my cheek warm from sun. There is so much beauty, near,
& like her, I will never be able to thank you.
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She saw everything around her,
knew everything around her
could shatter in a high wind,
at the tip of a heavy stone, or
at the rasp of father’s voice
What was important to her was to walk
gracefully with no hands, no heart, no thought
What was important to her was to see
through each wall, and then another
until she was outside like a bird resting
on a high wire, fresh air beneath; the blur
of her world to fly through or fall through,
weightless yet singing for me to hear
Sometimes, I would see her standing there
Midnight
Two
Four am
It didn’t matter
She was always tired
Still, when she closed her eyes and smiled,
I swear so did she and she would start all over
again |
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across even an
ocean, there is noise behind
storms behind light |
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i fell down
the basement stairs
backwards
when i was five years old
for years i had nightmares
about falling
my collar bone
was broken
my mother held me
all the way to the hospital
as i listened
to her heartbeat
it calmed me
but...
it was that night
in the dark car
i realized
she rarely held me
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brittle
as aged paper
inscribed in lines
taught through the center
on a middle aged face
but what is middling
and how is it different
than my adolescent trials
so hurt in the need
for a new decision |
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I wasn’t always like this.
I was young like you.
I was a poet, an artist.
I carried a sketchbook.
I read about Matisse
trading sketches for wine.
I ended up trading
something else.
But things come around.
How about I draw you
a picture on this napkin
and you can buy me
a Whiskey Sour?
Great.
Maybe we can trade
a couple more. |
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I have chemicals that my body makes,
little factories under the skin.
They send up a clear smoke - it looks
like the horizon across a hot road.
And on good days, they make people like me
(Have you ever driven past a cookie factory).
And on bad days, they make people hate me
(Have you ever driven past a slaughterhouse). |
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Some histories
need much mending.
Sometimes it would
be best to simply burn
the fabric
or rip it
to rags,
and start
anew.
New
needle,
new
thread,
new
fabric. |
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Strange mixture between graphic and words,
checked list of items and confession...
what do you mean you don't remember
your mother holding you?
From the drawing of an oval face
with marked empty eyes
shaded by a frown I'd say it may be true,
even though who am I to say?
Your words are sharp as broken glass,
corrosive as vitriol...
did you hate her?
Did she not
curl up at the end of your bed once?
Maybe you were sick
and she did not want to leave you alone.
Maybe she was not the sort of person
able to display affection in the normal way,
but told you she loved you when
uncomfortably
she gathered her body to itself
so to be close enough to you,
yet leave you space.
The face in the drawing looks
more and more menacing.
The face in the drawing speaks
of anger, and resentment.
You mention the episode of the bed
with disdain, describing your mother's effort
as if coming through a thick condom...
Maybe it is you,
your list that fast turns into sterile items.
maybe it is a grudge of child
you have been keeping, of needing,
wanting what it can't have,
the clear expression of love
a mother did not know how to give.
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