Mountain Blueness
Mountain blueness haunts
hallowed hollows.
Spark-flames marrow-sconed
intention.
Sitting in your backyard is magical
Nothing but birdsong and rustling leaves
Swaying in the casual breeze
Oh, and the thrum of your AC unit
Routinely visiting in five minute intervals
If I transform into a statue, the scene changes
Wasps canvas emaciated, wooden patio chairs
Mosquitos land on my unguarded legs and ravage them
The subsequent pockmarks swelling into rosy birthmarks
A chunky groundhog emerges from your scrap heap
Keeping tabs on me as it surveys
The empty field ahead, empty
Save for the abundance of weeds
Which have grown long and wild since the last cut
An adolescent rabbit sits nervously, about two arms length away
Its approach completely silent and unnoticed
Snout working overtime, twitching
As if attached to an electrical node
The birds lose interest and go about their day
Except for one, who refuses to shut up
Perched above taut telephone wire
Her warbles dominate the scene’s soundtrack
She doesn’t like cut of my jib, I can tell
Letting her kin know to steer clear
Perhaps it’s her nature to be suspicious
Just like it’s mine
To assume that everything revolves around me
I’m tired of people eating my anger like it’s a forgotten candy in the bottom of my grandmother’s handbag.
is it sweet enough for you?
or does it leave a rotten taste in your mouth?
I’m tired of being told
when
what
and how to feel.
I’m tired of the bones in my chest aching in outrage to share the same room as a wrong coffee order.
my brother is getting married without a job, GED, or car.
I can’t finish my meals without feeling guilty.
my church who made a brand out of acceptance kicked me out for who I love.
my grandpa died and I didn’t get to say goodbye.
I can’t hold a conversation with my grandmother because she high every time I see her.
I feel like becoming an adult is just realizing that you will work and work and work till you die.
and it’s raining today. and I hate rainy days.
is that sweet enough for you?
Synchronized swim
when cicadas
in the seventeenth year,
return home.
(american sentence form-thank you Pauletta Hansel for the suggested form)
players on the court
first time in a long, long while
and it brings me joy
simple, ordinary joy
men gathered for a game
or two while the youngest watch
I only pass by, unnoticed and observant
the wait has been long
rims reattached last week and now
players on the court
3) This is about waiting
you said
love is a decision
there’s no word
of your whereabouts
2] Recent history
speechless phone
squats
by the bed
minutes swim
the breast stroke
1) Timelessness
click,
on the line my brother
like a fish
who’s found a hook
No woman is too calm,
patient,
educated,
or successful to be a Hysterical Woman.
If you refuse to alter your thoughts,
opinions,
manner of speech
in order to accommodate a man you will be a
Hysterical Woman.
If you refuse to water down your opinions,
or approach things in a way that makes a man more comfortable,
you will be a Hysterical Woman.
If you are passionate,
knowledgeable,
emotional,
human,
you will be a Hysterical Woman.
Your word will be null and void.
Your point of view will be invalid.
Your experiences worthless.
You will be made to feel unworthy.
You will be a Hysterical Woman.
You will be exhausted by the weight of it,
heavy from the burden.
I cannot tell you it will be easy
or that you will wear it like a badge of honor.
Your edges will begin to get worn down,
your anger will grow
and you’ll begin to feel like you are a
Hysterical Woman.
But what I need to you know is that
you will wake up in the morning,
with the sun filtering through the curtains.
You’ll sit up in bed, put two feet on the floor,
and you’ll keep going.
Light reflecting off our metastatic world
stings my bruised eyes
as periwinkle grey encases everything I know.
I whip my wheel
to a spot
our ticking clock stops…
A place I can’t breath
but the only space I can think.
Stainless steel flower stands blow to the ground,
geese flock frantically for cover
between cement labels,
and plastic bags roll around
like wrecking balls.
Wind slaps me across the cheek
drying the water droplets
pasted to my face–
leaving behind
a remarkable lash.
I duck for cover as to not get soaked:
stares shooting daggers
into my chest from other
underground home
guests as they stand in a drought,
and I in a hurricane.
