A poem about vocabulary and memory.
What is the true determinant of joy? Is it never having to argue my existence, ever-safe in the knowledge that I am human, worthy and deserving of all good things? I could save my words for wonderful things; shared secrets between sisters. songs in languages I don’t know. cries of unbridled pleasure. I would beContinue reading “What is the true determinant of joy?”
SorrowThe day got rough seemingly out of nowhere. Tension is creeping at the edges of my brain, kneading on my skull like a desperate kitty. Needing affection like I need comfort now that the wind is the only other sound beyond my clicking on a keyboard. It whirls about recklessly, slinging heavy tree branches andContinue reading “City Emotions”
I could gift you broken dishes
Stained in crimson and ecru
Would hold them in your soft fingers
I turned our pictures face side downAnd stopped playing the songs you sent meRemoved my favorite necklaceWith your smiling face etched into the locketFrom its home around my neckBreathed a new scent that I had begun to forgetAnd others seemed to miss
Wistless men frighten me — ambitious, powerful men with the world at their fingertips and my chest in their palms. They leave me to ache with longing, and my skin turns a sick, green pallor. These men and their dreams cut me so deeply that I am left frequently bleeding fear onto my fresh, whiteContinue reading “The Spent Woman”
I think about the sun sometimes. Being her. Perhaps exploding with her, our brilliant light streaking through the universe like a crashing orgasm, leaving the planets and stars shaking, thrashing about contentedly.
Som days I look like my dad… distant, and very selective about my outward show of emotions. Other days, I seem to hold my mother more. Co dependent and relentlessly empathetic.
This one I think is meant to be performed. When I wrote it, it sounded like a monologue. Someone telling whoever would listen how she fucked up her plants.
Written one night when I couldn’t fall asleep and I was tired of the way I was writing my old poems.