Tag: relationship

moon slip–poem

how silly my moon slip
into down     my lips
pocus wrap in yours
and I’m sorry about
celestial ache and howl
and how are you
getting down from here?
will you climb cloud
humid spilling? crawl?
beg the ailing air
to backbend into ladder
place your foot in the
spinal gnocchi rung
stumble out of this skin

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life is crazy. my apologies for the sabbatical. 

to wait (poem)

how silly of me to read your skin
pressing, your pressing as subcutaneous.

deep is relative. i know. and my reason
dizzies drunk on nonsense

on fancy on romance. on nonsense.
&i knew better than my excited

utterance, braided in borrowed sheets
in childhood bedrooms and now

i wait. like spoiling food, waiting
for teeth to sink and my nectar

to spill over lips, to be lapped up
to be savored, to be loved.

you&I

You don’t have time
for me
&i respect that
i respect
Your time
i am time
rubberbanded
i am
rubberband ball
i am knee knot
&skin blemish
i am Your rash
i am rash
You know that
by now
that my flannel
sheets
that my piece
              mealed
sleep
that i am piecemeal
is my arm
outstretched?
elbow lock
&i can almost
touch You
from here
almost
touch
test
          is this a test?

 

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.

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.

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.

 

———————————————————————————

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.)

Poem that isn’t about Corn

One summer we grew corn. Cutting into the Virginia clay-sand soil. (My mother always cursed the dirt. Spoiled fertility.) I knifed three rows, ripping and clawing at clods of grass. Thick with sweat, slick skin slipping their grip on the yard tool just as suitable to cleave open his skull at the temple. That thought didn’t occur as the lower lumbar ache spread like a pandemic—flushing my muscles in a race of infection. Maybe somewhere deeper—nestled in a bed of arteries, feeding off fresh bleeding—it was growing. He was breeding me for domesticity. I loved those little pink seeds. I held them in my sticky palm. They looked like rock candy. I imagined sinking my teeth into the tawny flesh of that fruit. The hours, the labor, the loved poured over that fruit—the ache of that love would be tangible. I would sink my teeth into that flesh and sever it for good. but We let it die. Let it rot tall in its stalks. A mockery of that ache.

 

——————————

 

First draft. Very in the works.

I Will

Scars mark my skin all over like waves of August heat… from scraped knees to razors dragged into the meat; teeth sallow from the nicotine, heart wary from the ache of latent hate. I lean with the creak of floor boards, pliable to the derecho winds that rip roofs from homes and ease from wills. I ache with the constant tick that reminds me and plagues me of mistakes decades old.

I want to be that girl that blooms in the barroom smoke with crystal eyes with will of fervor shining like pearlescent wings of some detested pest that thrives in separate airs.

but I am neither. I am on fire–letting my skin be licked by flames, letting my skin melt and peel like petals. My lips are velvet, rubbed over by decay–crushed scarlet from the flush of someone else but dried up. Wasted.

I’ll paint myself with the colors of someone famous and strong. I’ll sidle their spine through my flesh and stand tall with their strength. I will prop my arms strong with the proposition that I’m all I need. I can force feed myself disappointment. I need no men to help me with that.

 

Seventeen is a good round number
to desecrate the soil. My
pavement is littered with carcasses.
Their wet bodies’ slow crawl
out of a shed shell, left as
a testament of a long patient sleep
for a lover. I hear everything
in the night. Those wings are still
silent but soon they’ll shake
the spring sweat from the trees.
Something inside me still
aches to die, to feel the slow rot
of aching dull pain. I will wake
covered in their legs, cicada
wings crawling over my lips to lie
in wait for a love, for a mate.

 

This cicada shit is out of control. I might vomit.