Here, we turn our chairs to listen
Like poppies chasing the high of the sun
Like hungry children to a flicked on porch light.
Like lint to an inherited sweater, you promised to keep pristine.
To the radiant, nourishing song:
“Y’all ain’t gonna believe this.”
Three days after swearing off sex, I message an old tinder date.
We talk about coming home to ourselves, recovery, and tarot.
She asks me, in what ways do you want to be more grounded?
& I want to tell her about Yayoi Kusama’s Narcissus Garden. How
fifteen hundred steel spheres lay on the ground, & reflect via convex
—how the viewer experiences a multitude of warped reflections
within reflections, copies of copies. & I want to tell her
it’s not just about the warped image anymore.
It’s what else the curve scoops up from around you,
how it translates and abstracts the environment too.
And I want to tell her all the stories that
I’ve told myself—that I’m not sure how
to find my way out of the garden. And
she sends me flowers through the phone,
a handful of musky daffodils in full bloom—
roots exposed and dirtying up the receiver.
Bits of earth crumble into my palm.
Maybe men communicate best
With their backs facing you
Yes, their greatest ideas
arguments
Come from staring at the walls the floor the ceiling
Ears full of bees
Mouths full of baseball bats
Can he even hear me when I speak
Can he hear how he speaks to me
It feels so terrible to admit,
but I’m starting not to like
crossing paths with people who are nice to me.
In this day and age
of self-centered behaviors,
anytime I’m shown a kindness
it’s so foreign to me, I…
Well I don’t know what to do with my gratitude.
My dreams, at their end this morning
resembled tetris
stacking dishes in the sink
And I am reminded
not exactly unkindly
(and decidedly not for the first time)
that to so many
‘women’s work’
is just a game.
I’m sad
It doesn’t do any good
I’m not alone
We never are.
I’m sad though.
Look out for your body
What you eat
Be safe
No drugs.
But I’m sad.
Over indulgence
I crave decadence with no reward
I crave killing myself slowly
No fast forward
Wallow in sadness wallow in wow,pass me my kit and pass me my chow.
I’m sad and angry without why or how.
Or tired of explaining that it hurts here and now.
for l.l.
i went to a funeral today
and sang amazing grace at the top
of my lungs with my sunglasses on
everyone in the room turned to look.
i shed my black dress for short short
cut offs and a t-shirt that clings to my shoulders
for dear life as soon as i got home
and posted up in my driveway with a blow up pool.
i don’t think i could get my pony tail any higher.
the construction workers across the street take
respite every time i move.
they feel the weight of what i am.
and even though they are perverts
i still bask in their silent reverent stares
as i walk across the lawn.
gin and tonics are so fucking good.
just a little ice on the wound
makes it all better.
if i stand up! men cease their work.
when i sing too loud the congregation stares.
if i do almost anything in my natural way
it draws attention.
a roofer waves to me when he comes down to load shingles.
but i do not respond.
i don’t need to,
it might crush the delicateness between us.
even without even speaking
i will have the last word.
Sometimes I worry
that words will escape me
that I will open my mouth
and my tongue will stand still
a solitary blade
a rusting sickle
wanting to make sense
in a sea of grass.
