Read to Me
Read me
like
the
book
you
cannot
put down
Mark
the
pages
where
you left
off
and return
to me
eager
for
more.
Read me
like
the
book
you
cannot
put down
Mark
the
pages
where
you left
off
and return
to me
eager
for
more.
Turning forty
Being a woman
No one prepares you
For the day when
You will wake up
Trudge through the chaos
Do your nighttime routine
Wash your face
Only to look in the mirror
And realize you’ve
Washed years of your youth
Down the drain
Year, months, weeks
Days, hours, minutes
Simply vanished
On momentary vices
Fixes that never fixed
Anything they were worth
The real deal
Quite the wholesale stock
At clearance prices
Equals out to a lot of clutter
For someone who has
No clue how to
Iron the wrinkles out.
A child in a classroom
breaks a pencil
There is a simple solution
to sharpen it
The rest of the students
work silently
The teacher at her desk
wouldn’t say a word
But the child sits
as if she was stuck
in a trough of
the liquid white glue
that sat on the classroom shleves
She sees half of the possibilities
The ones in which
she would feel the pit
in her stomach
the heat in her face
the tears in her eyes
or whatever we decide to name you,
little creature curled into a bundle
of fear and fur underneath an armchair
in the back room. How I wish to scoop
you into my arms and rock you like a baby,
little bug, and tell the world of your bravery
in the face of a love so unknown to you.
I wonder what you remember of all the hands
that have held you: the warmth of the house
fire, the passing between one place to another,
and the small breath you took when you sat
on my lap and refused to leave, not out
of any attachment of frozen fear, but a
statement, as if to say, I’m here to stay.
I have lost my ability to meander.
Somewhere among orderly schedules
and plans for events
so far in the future
that they can never occur,
this extinction of disattention
crept into my life
and defined all the spaces of the world
as bastions of should
and cells of should not.
I’m not the only one suffering this loss.
Now we have charged verbs
like loiter and wander,
and only streams can meander,
as long as they do not become rivers
or think they are better than creeks.
The whorls of the whirlwinds of fancy
we once encountered only by accident
were shoved down exhausted alleyways
with the rest of our humanity.
I want to meander again and not taste the bitterness of guilt.
My speech, mind, and words often maunder
as I sink deeper into my own settled ways
in favor of the enchantment of efficiency.
We once had charming pastimes
like meandering across our afternoons
to escape the claustrophobia
of the lives we assembled for ourselves.
I invite you to meander when you most don’t want to do so,
and I hope to see you enjoy the ability to digress.
Did anyone else see that fat cheese moon last night?
Looked like I could have plucked it from the sky,
some kind of shiny cheddar fruit from heaven.
I swear I could have. I swear I would have
served a fromage-focused feast made
from my spoils. I would stop every
guest at the door and ask each of
them: “Hey, Did you bring
Lactaid? I have some in
the medicine cabinet
in the downstairs
bathroom.”
I found in you a static
silent mind
waiting to be opened
beautiful eyes widened
with curiosity
touching toes
under the table
so excited to be here
to know you
to know me
“Are you familiar with narcissistic abuse patterns?”
The television’s speckled.
I yelled and cried for a year
stomach knotted in my bed
tears staining the pillow
The fog became familiar
a buzz I couldn’t kill
I thought it was all my fault.
My body still winces
still tired
miles and miles away
I can hear the TV
fizzing in the background
A channel I cannot change.
Old horror movies and their wacky host
between coverless issues of EC comics
that I fished out of the quarter bin.
I’ve always liked monsters.
I’m covered in the blood of a dead
(my dead)
friend group, sometime after midnight.
I’d feel better about the steak in her heart
if not for the teeth in my neck.
The sun will be up soon,
and I broke her coffin.
New me, new anxieties.
A friend tries to get up
and I realize I missed dinner.
Gross, I know, but
I’ve always liked monsters.
when i was a kid, i wanted
to be a boxcar child
and sleep in the pine needles
promise to always pray to nana,
you can take the evil back
but you will have to pull it out first
i’m more scared of your second face
and the shower head
i used to check there for jesus,
and you know,
he watched all the time,
even created me,
just like you
