I throw on your sweater
and then I remember
feeling of heaven,
a passionate temper
Setting the table for
feelings to fester
Yet in a moment,
watering an ember
A loving, a fire
turned crackling cold
never gone, never weakened
Softened to a new, peaceful mold
I.
I hate the golden, gilded cage
you keep me in.
If I thought suicide was
a big enough “fuck you,”
that my aim was precise enough
to shatter your heart,
I’d do it.
I’m letting my pen bleed tonight
instead of my wrists.
II.
I wish you
the kind of despair
you instill in me.
For someone
who has been caged,
how can you deny another
their freedom?
III.
I don’t see a path
to the life I long for.
I hate you
and I hate myself.
I have shrunk
to fit this tiny life.
IV.
I feel like the child
who was born for spare parts,
an afterthought
meant to be a sacrifice for others.
V.
Bargaining with God
is going nowhere.
Maybe I’ll try the Devil.
VI.
Fuck George Bailey
and Frank Capra.
It’s a horrible life.
VII.
I can’t see a future for myself.
Does that make me a pessimist
or a realist?
VIII.
I have banged my head bloody
against the wall of effort.
I’m still not good enough.
IX.
Ignorance is bliss.
Sometimes I wish
I didn’t know myself
so well,
that my egg had never cracked,
that I was still sitting
in a closet
in the dark,
unaware.
X.
Hope is so fragile.
How do I destroy yours?
XI.
I will never forgive you
because you are never sorry.
XII.
I used to cut my skin
with car keys.
Now I know how to
harm my soul instead.
April 12
My tonsils are gone!
I snuggle in a red chenille robe
anticipating Amos ‘n’ Andy, but instead
solemn music from the radio fills the room.
Mother cries. Father looks stunned.
I don’t understand.
May 8
Our neighbor backs her car over Ruggles.
Mother says Mrs. B didn’t see her pup,
as she hurried from home to attend
the Service of Thanksgiving.
I cry, Why? Why?
August 14
Lynette and I march up and down West Sixth,
the sounds from our toy drums drowned
by the cacophony of church bells.
Later, as ministers drone in the stifling heat,
I am crushed at the end of a pew,
and my short dress does not shield
my legs from sticky varnish.
March 5
I stand on the curb as the parade passes,
my back pressed against Mother.
There’s wild applause, and Mr. Churchill,
high above on a float, is smiling and waving
his cigar to the drumbeat of the band.
At supper when Father mentions an iron curtain,
I think of Mother pressing our striped drapes.
comestio radiata
I get home from a day of shopping and
reluctantly glance over at my unread
stack of books.
They look up at me with
big, sad, tear-filled
puppy dog eyes.
It’s all very awkward,
too awkward for me to take,
so I stack my five new books on top of them
and hide away their faces.
What am I to you?
Pencil me in,
make me fit.
I will make myself fit.
If my lack of mirth scares you,
maybe you should analyze
the hourglass sands
within yourself.
in the moment of a star’s passing
space curves
time distorts
creation starts
again
hope prevails
Fly each day
Pollinating 2000 flowers
Live to 5
Pollinating 3 million
No one notices
Work each day
Helping 82 people
Live to 100
Helping 3 million
No one notices
Floating down river
On flower helped bloom
Quiet, slow
Peaceful, eternal
I noticed
do other critters
play tricks on themselves
as often as us fleshy dreamers
a cricket wing violin
charming summer breath
to forget his lonely slumber
a ripening sunflower
swaying to the cricket’s song
to hide the weight of blooming
an ant toward songless body
falling into step
to lose herself in being
