Tag: national poetry writing month

Moon Poems

Collage-Cover-Scrapsm 3

II.
Spring solstice and light lingers in peach milk skies
leaking violet into the soft violence of horizon;
and the cornflower blue twilight lasts forever
and dawn calms the ache and the stretch
and it will be warm soon and the concrete will thaw.

excerpt from “Give & Calm.” look forward to more excerpts and more moons leading up to the book release, first week of May.

poison in the form of skin

 

oh sweet pea my lips
are fat with your poison
fat with your skin
pressed     the pressing
of skin is a precious
thing and so are your
soiled words hushed
against my neck   against
my neck   I use my breasts
to brace   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    fingertips like
oleander petals and I
am sleep love drunk
rolled in flannel
the fire escape moon
silhouette on my thighs
on my thighs   on this
skin love like luck
could be a myth   and me
a drowning siren

smoke

my mouth smolders
fat slow pillows
of milky smoke
rising from my
swollen gums—
the stretch
of jaundice
over my chicklet
teeth, the wait
of it all—
char is coming
and yet
but wait
the romantic sin
stick pushed taught
with tea leaves
(yes tea leaves)
my mouth is full
of awake and anger—
the angst of chapped
lips resenting,
purged of adultery
and ache

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.

Poem

 

Sometimes I feel allergic to his touch,
like when he grips my hips when we’re
twisted in sheets.. that his fingers
will slip to my throat to hold
until I choke. There’s something about
that first man. Oh men. I’m a recovering
addict. My model of love is barbed
wire wrapped tight around
a crumbling orchid, a rose
shoved through the holes of brass
knuckles. I am ripped petals bleeding
pollen, a broken womb. He’s trying
to repair these lips but I’m not
having any of it. I’m just buying time
to run away
and taking every inch of his skin
while I can.

 

Stumps

 
He didn’t even try to save me.
He cut a gash in my life boat,
pulled the string that strung
together my wooden raft,
amputated my legs that kicked
my body closer to air. &He
drank the blood that drained
from my stumps, then mocked me
for being unable to swim.
&Waited for me to get over it.
He’s still waiting somewhere.

 

these seem a little more raw and less “wordy” or language laden than usual. fascinating. ]

Cotton Mouth

 

This is only temporary. He ought to know it
but the way he holds me when he thinks I’m sleeping
–I just can’t.
My tongue crawls into the corner of my cotton mouth
jaw, grows mothballs, and I just smile
and kiss him back.

 

Obituary

 

I read my obituary in a dream
last night, sleeping on the carpet
to rid myself of his breath.
I must have carved too deep
into my own skin,
I told myself. Oops.
Haven’t had that problem in
half a lifetime. Something must’ve
sparked it back alive.
I wasn’t an angel. I wasn’t
ethereal. I was heavy and dead
and still real. Just empty.
I read my obituary and it said
nothing of me. I was nothing
but a byline, not even a headline.
No one survived me. and I didn’t
survive.