High Coo Two
beautiful tulips
borrow their sheen from the dead
crushed bulbs underneath
One steady line
kissing east and west,
our fingers interlocked, etching
tiny tic marks
facing north and south
set to determine
our course—
scribbling
and deleting
to see if we
first
run out of lead
or eraser.
own your wyrd refrains the gods in my ear
and nothing more; it was goodwill that lent
me the lesson after the double knot
in the dress i just bought was the same kind
of crooked i had tied and untied lots
before; it was black and green too i mean
what are the odds? i am remembering
the web pattern, the chlorophyll inkblots
i already rejected before and
wore in another worser life and i
am caught up in the reverse miracle
of it all i scramble to behold it-
the off center bow, recoiled and relooped,
loaded: the same test over and over.
Explain to me what this is,
this winding back time,
this kicking up old loyalties
where I have no reason, no control.
It’s like getting drunk and meeting an old lover
forgetting it’s been 25 years,
suddenly swiping key cards in hotel doors,
kicking off high heels and smearing mascara
in streams of exquisite entropy.
It’s like looping on a carnival ride,
spinning around, face pressed sideways,
centrifugal force lifting wrinkles
that fall back down when the ride is over.
What is this thing that haunts me
like the faces of friends betrayed by years,
tears that never fell at the last wave goodbye,
having one more thing to say,
their blinker flashing on and off as they drive away.
It knocks me down if I turn my back,
like the ocean, her rhythm and swell, huge,
unpredictable on this small patch of sand.
She is life and death and we float and sink,
forgetting that the curtains are shear
and the whole world is watching.
Lemon-lime moon drifts on afternoon
clouds rabbit sniffs clover white
on the outside saffron on the inside
impossible bee wafts between sunflower
& goldenrod over moon dust yarrow
with aqua sky for ceiling
old woman’s dress buzzes with ocherous
petals begonia & marigold & hibiscus
their stems & sepals climb sleeves
like jade flames sailing in a wild
blue yonder of smock skirt waves
waist shallows breast rapids
collar whitecaps as she cascades over
field under crescent step by step
until her shadow inundates landscape
splashes onto bee & rabbit sending them
leaping & thrumming to amber hive swarthy
warren while twilight powders hills
with its crepuscular electricity.
~inspired by the art of Marie Carlson
Leaden sky hangs heavy over Ashley River.
Hints at rain. Moisture-laden wind promises it.
I, water-uneasy, hope for whitecaps: small crafts
cancellation. Blackwater waves tease white, stop shy
of cresting. I worry-shuffle dock edge, puzzle
an entry to this plain-white, canoe-like longboat.
I contemplate staying dockside
but instead with eight newbies, line up, life-vested
secure and shiver in February cool mist.
Seasoned veterans separate us in three sections:
First section: leaders (set rhythm of stroke and pace)
Second section: engine room (pace determiners)
Third section: rockets (power, propel boat forward).
I am a rocket.
Long-haulers— caller, steerer, another rocket —
board, our count now: twelve sister warriors, two abreast.
Paddles up! Boat breath quickens. Take it away! I
reach/lean forward, extend over choppy water
water-bury my blade deep: hard-pull parallel.
My radiation-inflamed pectorals rebel.
I groan.
My seatmate reassures: We’ve all been where you are.
You’ll get through this. I hard-push the edge, breathe beyond,
drive paddle deep, stroke back, muscles resist…release.
Stroke – Stroke – Stroke – caller voice-drums cancer-defying
cadence. Line steady we forge forward, fire-breathing
women red-scaling our plain white boat, our paddles
grow dragon claws.
Our heartbeats drum, fire finding water. Let it run…
Deyni sent me a text today.
Her English leaves a lot to be desired.
My Spanish is a total of five or six words.
We manage with online translations.
She most always begins with;
Hola rudy
Como esta
Soy deyni
I process images stored in my head:
Deyni at the waterfalls,
or standing with an active volcano,
steam rising in the background
I have no idea whether she has
stored any images of me
in her head
if I have hope of one,
it would be of me,
walking beside her
to the outdoor market
with no worries about
gangs,
for they know her father
well
Growth is recognizing the parts of myself
I would rather not think about.
Growth is standing up for myself
a little bit more than I used to.
But when I’m laying in bed
the TV sounds like my mom’s voice.
And sometimes I still flinch
when someone walks past my door.
Unfair is you growing for eighteen years
while I struggled to survive in my own house.
Unfair is you becoming a person
while I was abused into constant numbness.
I can’t breathe tonight,
feeling the bars of this cage around me,
knowing danger is only a confession away.
I’m still loved by everyone we know
as long as I don’t reveal my secret.
What would I place on the altar
to be free to be myself?
Not you,
not your relationship
with your conservative family.
Some nights I feel hunted
like a pilot behind enemy lines.
Nodding and smiling
as others say ugly, transphobic things.
And it’s not that I want to
kick down the closet door
tomorrow.
But it’s knowing that I can’t,
that I might not ever,
that makes the air in here
feel stifling.
I don’t hate my life
but I don’t love it like I could.
I feel less comfortable in this skin
than I used to.
I long for everyone
to call me
by my girl name.
I want to wear dresses every day.
I want to take that deep breath
of freedom
that’s always just out of reach.
I’m so anxious.
I’m so scared of the people I love.
Of love turning to
abandonment.
I still feel sick inside
like the child whose father
always said that he’d leave.
“You’ll miss me when I’m gone.”
And they’ll miss me when I’m gone.
No one will want the new me.
A world of slammed, locked doors.
I don’t know that I’m strong enough for that.
And I can’t drag you down with me.
On good days,
I can imagine
a girl
who’s beautiful and free.
On days like this,
I sit and shake on the bed,
knowing there’s no way out for me,
no easy answers.
And I’m so tired of lying
to protect myself.
I’d like to tell my mother
that I’m going to a transgender conference in November
and if she wants me to run the business
she’ll keep her mouth shut.
I want to tell your family
I can’t swim in their pool
because I have pink toes
and they cost me too damn much
to take the polish off this soon.
I wish I could be seen
and even celebrated
at my happiest
and most beaufiful.
I wish so many
of my favorite parts of me
didn’t have to stay
hidden away.
And it’s so overwhelming to think about
like my childhood terrors
trying to grasp the concept
of eternity.
I can’t wrap my mind around
the word “never.”
Or the idea that all my joy
is stolen,
at the expense of
someone else’s comfort.
Or that my grandparents
would have been ashamed
like my father was.
I don’t have one of those shiny, happy
trans testimonies
where everyone comes around in the end.
What I have is nausea
every time I think about
truly getting what I want.
I don’t want what I want.
I’m not strong enough to stay the course.
So I bounce between
what I want
and what I hate.
And sometimes
I just get so dizzy.
