of putting on a fake face
holding my tongue
talking shit to my damn self.
My bruised brain boxing, battling
demons deep in my consciousness.
I want to close my eyes and
conjure tulips, the scent of seas of lavender
not the stabs of rotten dried-up curmudgeons.
Stop squatting in my cerebrum.
My forehead is tight and it hurts to create.
He never gets better.
Discs rupture.
Cysts develop.
His foot drops
and migraines pound.
From afar he insists
he’s doing just fine,
all things considered.
I appreciate the lie,
but I know he’s a broken boy.
And it hurts my heart.
Recently,
My health has declined.
Recently,
I had to have the rot
Scraped out from inside of me.
Funnily enough,
I don’t think she got all of it.
I still feel
Where your horrible touch
Lingers.
If only she could’ve
Scraped my brain, too.
I open my notebook from the back
and pray my poems to the front.
It’s how this left-handed poet prays,
verses written where indexes
should stay, or acknowledgements
of people who believed in me.
Here’s where the praying starts,
where the Red Sea parts, words
dammed until, at God’s command,
they fill the dry sea bed in my head.
I always prayed this way. Even in
synagogue at night I read from the
right to the left. Well, poems are
prayers, too. They merely challenge
you to decode every odious line
as they emerge from the purge
in your mind. They’re babies just
born, their pudgy stanzas
of character unformed.
Meet me by candlelight
Call my name three times at midnight
Conjur up the hidden souls
Hands pressed firmly behind these walls
The moonlight exposing nature’s recluse
Within the fog spirits run loose
You do not know the power you toy with
Folklore never made you afraid of this myth
When at the witching hour
You hope the spirits will accept your dour
“Oh spirits, hear my plea!”
As they hide around corners mocking you with glee
Attempting to play a god
But those behind the veil call you a fraud
And now is released an evilness
Due to a silly eagerness
To satisfy a lonely desire
Your once green eyed girl you want to aquire
Now these ghosts forever haunt you at night
All the while clinging to a lost love so tight
Dear god! Women have
the right to fly the same as birds.
SB—not my god’s voice.
*Headline in NYTimes post Wednesday, June 14, 2023 11:23 AM ET
It is a back
And forth
The black waves lap against the boat
If I keep moving
But
When I sit still in the black waters
The waves thrash
The old wood of the vessel creaks
I look to the sky
And then back to the dark waters
They hold the shadows of everything that cannot be healed
There is no white savior walking across these storm waters
There is only my magic
And
My magic doesn’t wash it away
It simply makes space
For the inevitable
For the possibilities
For the things that resist treatment
They come in pairs, knocking and smiling,
trying not to wince when you open the door,
trying not to know there’s the screaming just beyond,
trying not to hear the harsh words shouted behind the door,
trying not to know that sound of palm against cheek,
trying not to cringe when you invite them in
trying not to crawl out of their skin
as they hand you a pamphlet,
invite you to join them,
shake hands,
turn,
go.
From my window,
I can see the trees swaying in the breeze
the leaves are almost dancing
as an occasional leaf drops from the branch
and is carried off in the wind
Flowers are bending rhythmically, too
the grass is bent over
showing the force of the wind
But the trees stand strong
moving with the current of the gust
Life continues on, with the people
and pets moving as normal,
ignoring the blustery atmosphere,
walkers keeping an eye on the sky,
as they walk quicker than usual towards shelter
The sky darkens and the wind picks up
with the possibility of a summer storm
but the rain holds off for now, although
you can smell it in the air
as the trees continue to sway in the breeze
