Tag: imagery

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

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.

 

ur qt—a poem

Your fingers licked the grooved
metal strings
and the clicking of
your tongue on the ridges
of the roof of your mouth
strummed the sinews of my skin
in lulling rhythms, built
craters of sighs in my
collarbone. All love
dripping from the length
of your hair and me
hugging my knees
on the edge of your bed.
Babe I live in the linger
of your breathing
on my neck
and you keep dropping
your pick but I don’t
miss a step of song
when you bend
to pick I up. I’m tangled
in the sienna brown
of your sheets and I know
that coffee burnt your
tongue but it didn’t
hold us back.

Steeped

My body’s steeped
in oleander blood
bathing the bodies
in hemlock tea
their petal skin
bowing under teeth
and I am heady
in my silent skin
bent under tongue
sheets licked
with love
liquor
and I am sick
with the
residue
of his sweat
on my lips

Of Course

If I cut open this skin
saline and whiskey
would spill
from the spread
lips
of the wound

maybe some
earl grey
spoiled
milk
the pulp of my lungs

and I’d be
a mess of words
all consonants
and muddled vowels
all why
and how
come come come

come to bed
and warm my blood
everything is
so
so cold here

of course I’m
fine

Balcony Tantrums

I’m taking this tantrum
to the street
parade these flaming wrists
like drunken prophecies
drunken prophecies
why aren’t these
the goddamn gospel
why aren’t these
the rash of unwilling luck
I roll in the rain
of sleepless
sleepless what
balconies that aren’t mine
red. the color of lips
my tongue    his skin
when I’m done with it
     the fall from here
     wouldn’t hurt too bad
I’d fly like blackbirds

Steeped–poem

 

My body’s steeped
in oleander blood
bathing the bodies
in hemlock tea
their petal skin
bowing under teeth
and I am heady
in my silent sin
bent under tongue
sheets licked
with love liquor
and I am sick
with the
residue
of his sweat
on my lips

 

sorry for the absence.

Dear Good Sir–

[AKA. Yo Engaged Dude, You’re Still Staring At Me]

You aren’t well behaved on Mondays
that boding stare of yours
burying itself in my bones
singing the milk of my marrow
boiling me like burnt butter
crusted on the bottom of a pan
I need to soak
after all this silent courting
eyes laced in the gaping of rooms
my delicate mouth fat with worry
over words
&whether to say them
—or keep eating them
Your eyes are very intense sir
&yet
I don’t know what color they are
something silly to know them
so intimately
&still not know them
at all.

 

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We’re writting letter poems this week for workshop &it beats a fifth or sixth poem about anxiety! (anxiety poems are the shit though. I think I found my niche.)