Posts for June 14, 2018 (page 4)

A few weeks ago, I colored my hair—
or tried; I wanted to

slash a bloodletting, bleed myself
of who I’d always been; I wanted to

erase every outlived strand and dye
it silver, the likeness of transience,

fluidity, change, wisdom, hard-
earned through accumulation

of years, trials, perseverance,
and lessons, to announce, or enact

ritual of re-creation—but
she didn’t see what I envisioned—

I was left, bearing a faded shade
of blue that washed to blonde

too quickly, so quickly, beneath
rays and realities of summer sun.

Now, it’s time again to consider
the length and weight of this crown

of dead cells cascading—whether
I, again, accept what appears to be

me, though but a facet, a single color,
or allow myself to trust another

again, to do the undoable and see—
highlight—what no one ever seems

to see or believe:  That I am worth more
than the cost or the hue of my hair.

A day will come when you won’t
know my face, when my voice
won’t trigger your smile.
But today is a day that falls
in the summertime, 
and you kiss my cheek
when I arrive at your door.
And today, you still recall
that you take your coffee 
black in the afternoon.

we like all liquids
contaminated in old
barns for a few years

I want love and passion like a Hurricane

Grandiflora

my heart bows to this magnolia; i pinch
a cone for which i have interior designs.

a juniper hairstreak suckles
nectar from pallid sumac flowers.

a donkey watches me with sweet,
bottomless eyes through a fence where
grapevines are superfluous.

faded redstarts land sporadic, i zoom in
and focus- but they are speedy birds, so i
nevermind them, like i nevermind the
thorns catching hold of me in all
the places you pay such special mind.

I used to teeter on the
Edge of anticipation,
The ascent to new heights
Before returning to the earth.  

Now I totter on the
Edge of mortality.
Mostly heavy, grounded.
Unsure of the wisdom to ascend.  

Life flows between
Two extremes.
Like breathing out,
And breathing in.  

The balance of the
Teeter-totter
Required a partner.  

It was an easier balance
If you were similar
In weight (gravitas).  

But balance was possible,
Even when weight was unequal,
If parties would shift
Their position.
A new balance
Could be found.  

I loved coming down hard,
With a bounce.
Making the other
Fly off their seat.
Forcing them into weightlessness
For just a moment.
No support.
Just air.  

I also loved
Being the recipient
Of the bounce.
The elation
Of freedom.
For just a moment,
No support.
Just air.  

The flow between
Solid ground,
Pushing with strong legs.
To flying.
Hanging on to the handle
For control.  

The understanding
That both conditions
Were necessary
Vital
Enjoyable.  

Then coming
To neutral.
All four legs
On the ground.
Mutual respect
For the need
To hold the board steady
So each person
Could dismount
Without harm.
Then joyfully running
To the merry-go-round,
To spin
Until all were dizzy.    

If we spoke again,
I’d watch my mouth around you
like I watch it around wine –
seeking moderation,
not asking for too much,
closing my lips before they loosen.

If we saw each other again,
I’d make sure you were right,
because of how I left.

And if you met my dog,
I’d give you some cheese.
He loves cheese, and he’d love you,
but with cheese, he’d love you quickly;
I want him to love you quickly,
not how I did.

Everything is upside down
nothing has a name
there is movement
which I shape into the space of my room
the tangible form
of what’s enclosed in the belly
the immense tide
of the heart
the green miracle of my body
the one who gave birth to herself
not knowing that we are headed towards ourselves
I am the embryo, the germ, the first cell
wrapped in ancient roots

~ Cento of lines taken from Frida Kahlo’s Diary, translated by Barbara Crow de Toledo and Ricardo Pohlenz, p. 205, 206, 208, 210, 213, 214, 215, 228, 234, 249, 255, 271

I am listening to The Hours by Philip Glass. It’s a bit like channeling Glass, channeling Michael Cunningham, channeling Virginia Woolf.  It’s a bit like Mrs. Dalloway, purchaser of flowers. It’s much about time–Big Ben, renlentless, ticks on.  But it is also about death.  Suicide.  Virginia is drafting a note to Leonard.  She is filling her pockets with stones.  She is walking toward the water.  There is no one to stop her. 

If there was anything little about this fog’s feet, you wouldn’t know it by the size of its body, laying a cloak of furry invisibility for miles. It hides whatever waits discovery under your nose, or at best past the truncated cone of the streetlamp outside the window. For all you know; some monster, its roar muffled, is about to swallow your world while no one is able to watch. And then, unlike the fog, her silence in the dark of your single question reveals everything as clearly as lightning and its following thunder.