Tag: freeverse

It’s Shark Week Y’all

I do not remember my first period.
Does this make me less woman? less uterin?
except It is all blood, all blushing blot and clot.
It is forever pink leaking. It is forever thick,
deep summer ache.

I do remember when I learned gender: by exclusion,
by a him’s abandon. Dirt sweated skin rejected
for feminine. I didn’t get it. I still don’t get it.
Just warm with shame and blood.

If I could hollow out my womb, I would.
It is not my woman, though I lead with it.
I like it filled, empty, filled, empty, full.

These hips make for width. They weigh,
wait for work: earn their keep
with prowess and draw.

Poison in the pressing of skin

oh opium bud–my lips are fat with your poison
fat with your skin pressing

the pressing of skin is a precious thing
and so are your soiling words hushed
against my neck

against my neck     I use my breasts to brace
for work
for efficiency
they hold more than milk

you leak nightshade all over my sheets
all over my skin     the muscle
of your hands     the bend of my muscle
under your hands     fingers like oleander
petals pressing

and I am sleep love drunk
rolled in flannel
the fire escape moon silhouettes
on my thighs     on my thighs
on this skin     love like luck
could be a myth     and me

 

this is my poisonous flower poem. I’ve memorized it for recitation.

smoothes

most the time I can’t sleep
and I stare at ceilings
and analyze their anatomies
the anatomies of ceilings
their shade of beige
their dimples
their pockets of vents
and the hum
of their emittance
nothing about love
can fix that
nothing about love
can really fix
anything
but does it soothe?
oh the calm
that smoothes
over my skin
while I sleep
finally sleep
and the resolve
I wake up to
cradled
in my collarbone

a lie

how catholic are you? how un
decided am I? am I?
does the holy ghost live in
basements? does.. is it a
he  a she  an it? does it
rattle the panels to startle?
does it matter what I think?
cause I make blasphemy an art
of syntax, I make that shit
inventive and unless
confined by the mandates
of corporate, I don’t even
mind    is that a lie?

 

I’m a bit behind on NaPoWriMo, but I’m working on it. 🙂

capacity

mirrors are so overrated               like doors
shutting               what if doors shutting
sounded like the shuddering of earthquakes?
     the shake and shiver of this earth
this earth is underrated               all that
space    space is rated for weight
capacity        capacity for what
mirrors vomit back to us     to me
vertigo is real and serving dessert
   in the painted back of the mirror
     the other side              what of
the other side?     am I safe because
                my apartment door is shut
and no mirrors?                my hands know
my body better than my eyes
     I know the sidling dip of hipbone
                the settling of all this skin
when I sleep      am I all dove or
pigeon?     all dove,
                          all pigeon.
yes.

Skin

when I think of peach milk skies at twilight
how snow caked rooftop peaks melt into
matte grey cloud blankets
when I think of how delicate how precious
dove ribs must be
how feathers thread together feel
I know what loss of flight feels
I know sewn skin
ripped skin
how blood bubbles quiet beads
precision
skin
feels

I’m Not Afraid of Heights–poem

 

I don’t trust
myself on those
on-ramps,
all stilted
and looming.
I’m always eyes
on the edge,
counting pores
in concrete.
How cold
is that water
is that air
kissing this
skin with burn
and brackish.
Dizzying, always
thinking about
driving off.
Would those
pores hold?
or snap
from their
hollowed gut.