Dolly knows all, Dolly never tells
The secrets that befalls
The toymaker and baker’s boy
In the shame they share.
Dolly always sees, Dolly never bleeds
With pain, with agony
The man behind the mirror
Punishes happily.
Dolly cannot cry, Dolly never lies
The heart shielding misery
Throbs and breaks
Until damaged mystery.
A day disappears
potassium evaporates
feet I cant feel acheburnrememberbeingup-wallsforeightmonthstocooldown
The beginning of nineyearsago
wolf claws inside me tearing into every soft cell in a cadaver whose heart just won’t stop
I wait
ambition of a life evaporates
sun is high when I lift the burgundy old navy tee from my face
morning is gone I sit in sweat hypothermic waiting to find a place outside the island of this bed
the sun keeps moving without me
crape myrtles reach high
anemic naked inverted teepees break view from southern windows reminding my bed it’s not the only world
pineapple is low in potassium but still higher than potassium pills which smell awful and I don’t have anyway. I think I might die where are the emergency electrolyte packs with poisons in themselvesthe mind wanders to pineapple
over and again
I correct typos I should leave in given their evidentiary witnessing to this chemistry’s despait
the moon is back. The day is lost. Feet crunchy and fragile like my art drawer crepe paper twenty feet away that I can’t get to. I loathe most days whoever spelled crepe myrtle wrong one time and stuck me with crape in canon. Ugly shrubs someone else planted
Cell walls in my squash plants desiccate
we all evaporate
too much pain to remember to loathe the myrtle today
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.
