15 going on 30
There is nothing quite as cruel as being a teenage girl too many question marks pass my lips on sentences that do not ask questions not enough calories pass my hips for days and days and days and Amber gangs the girls on me again. so I listen to my friend with little golden curls and PA roots I see myself refracted in her cd jewel case, glimmers of precocious girls with music box hearts and like a sage older sister I take her word like gospel emulating her stained glass life and still breaking mine all the same, after school, Jesse strums Breathe on my voicemail to impress me as I play music videos in my mind's eye against the school bus windows There is nothing quite as cruel as being a promising young woman too many question marks pass my lips on sentences that do not ask questions not enough calories pass my hips for days and days and days and Tom gets the nod from the CEO again. so I listen to my friend with the $1 suit and a rhinestone blazer follow the lead of her red-bottom moves, and hand paint the outsoles of my shoes to match and like a kindred spirit we live concurrent lives fifteen prismatic years gone by and she still gets me all the same and as I walk home, the faint descant of an old friend rings in my ear and I will sing along for evermore.
Housekeeping
Rugs swept,
slates clean
I kissed the ground you walked on as
you trudged your feet through the mud
The clock strikes ten,
and the steady hands that once sowed our seeds
scatter their ripped roots in another’s garden
He is building shoddy palaces on our ancient burial grounds
while I handwash his dirty laundry
always cool, separate, gentle,
agitate until it’s clear
Ambigram 2
There are petals on the counter
Light through the window
Food in my belly
But I am not in love,
and what a tragedy that is.
Ambigram 1
There are petals on the counter
Light through the window
Food in my belly
And now,
There is you.
Second Season
I wish for you sandy kisses
and laughter roaring with the sea
a little lobster-tinted skin
from the warm grains of time
and the salt air you were meant to breathe
I wish for you snowy alpine visions
and chilled cherry-colored noses
slowly awakened in sparkling scenery
and the crackling warmth of a hearth
radiating the tenderness you were made to know
I wish for you foggy morning walks
and drinking you in like pumpkin chai
a revolutionary book under heavy covers
stirred by the senescence of the leaves and
a million new yous fated to come alive
I wish for you bouquets of blooming tulips
and interlaced fingers in the gentle rain
late nights lit with clicking lightning bugs
and the early songbird's soft melody
under the sunrises you were destined to contain
I wish for a lifetime of second seasons,
and a reflection of you in it all.
Dead Red
His loose grip on the steering wheel,
my freeze-dried eyes stay forward
I have no interest in his tirades on youth soccer
or the changeless red light we’re racing
I catch his glower in my periphery
and amidst my dwindling concentration,
he yanks the wheel to the left and thunders,
don’t make me
He takes a pack of cinnamon gum from the console,
wolfs a few between his scowled lips
razes their wrappers,
then shoots the foil to the backseat
I am overtaken with a familiar pang as
I, too, have been casually chewed and spit out
I, too, have been garroted
by his pearly whites
In solidarity,
I do not take gum for myself
Instead,
I imagine an ice cube enveloped
in my closed fist
The faster the ice melts,
the faster my nails serrate my palm
Thawing until all that’s left
is my soaked skin,
and scars of bite marks past
Wax Poet
nibble on my skin until the bone shines
my serpentine silhouette painted on the wall
drag your thumb against my merlot-stained lips
lie on my linen and shed your skin raw
labyrinthine rumination subtly sipped away
escaping the flicker of bitter despair
our bodies a delirious rhapsody,
the trembling heroism of two souls laid bare
won't you sing with me 'til morning?
Looking Glass
I see myself in his margins
we are synonyms
ink for blood
indentations with stains dried
ripped at our perforations
and in the witching hour
we beg to be poured over,
devoured and deciphered
broken at the spine
craving the heat of the godlight
while retreating to evade the loupe
DNR
I am not sorry for killing myself.
You may think I didn’t deserve this,
and truthfully, you may be right
I didn’t deserve a life of treading water,
so I softly sank to the ocean floor instead
Or maybe I did deserve it.
Did I not earn every bruise?
How do you keep yourself from singing along
to a melody consistently sung for you?
If I am not tainted,
remember me now that I am gone
In every Noah Kahan song
and strong Philly accent
In every eyeroll at an inane joke
and “we should start a podcast”
In every moment when it’s too loud
and entirely too quiet
I snuck away on Halloween,
in the company of monsters concealed in shadows
and skeletons camouflaged among the living
I was once the haunted house,
but now I am just
home.
Am I doomed to always be too much?
Am I destined to listen to the birds croon as I
clench my own hand through the dark?
How I long to repair my lead glass heart,
its cullet scattered beneath my skin
Oh, to be a kaleidoscope,
held to the mirror so even in the shards,
I may be beautiful
Will my love always be received with latex gloves?
Polaris
Mom knew I loved outer space so like a wandering star
she slipped into my bedroom
constructed the cosmos on the ceiling with cheap tacky,
a glow-in-the-dark nebula of comets and stardust
And in the light of the aurora,
she carefully painted my walls carnation pink
with a baby blue trim
and hemmed clandestine gardens of
fairies romping in flowers yet to bloom
Often in twinkling nights,
the fairies would waltz
along with her soft hum in the distance
And when my world was enveloped in darkness,
black holes ever cavernous,
I’d look up to Mom’s constellations
and remember how she gave me the sky.
I hope my last words are dirty
after K
I hope my last words are dirty
I hope I am survived by a bittersweet symphony of
spasmodic giggles and vulgar cries
I’ll sneak into my night on timid tiptoes and
whisper sharp nothings into your pinned ears
I’ll be the light at the end of the tunnel,
composing a tight five on your paper lungs
I hope my last words are dirty
For I no longer desire to be so certain of what is on the other side
But rather,
to be certain that I will be survived by gentle eye rolls and
tacit grins -
Signs of life well lived.
Lap Dissolve
I know I had too much to drink
I don’t know what I was wearing
or how long it took you to get into my bed
I remember the lapses in my memory and
the lack of judgment in yours
I know I had too much to drink
and I know you were wholly conscious
You promised to take care of me,
tell me, where did you stow your conscience?
And maybe the actions don’t make the man, but
maybe his excuses do
I know I didn’t say yes
or maybe or soon or later
I said nothing
during your reckless abandon of me
I said nothing
because I was under an influence
I said nothing
because I should have been at rest
I said nothing
to aid and abet your stained glass reputation
while cutting myself on the shards of my memory
In the darkness,
I said nothing
I said nothing
I said nothing
I said nothing
Minnewaska
Singsong serenades from Black-Capped Chickadees
Clammy bodies like a skein across the trail
Cr-cru-crun-crunch of Autumn leaves under feet
Backpacks like boulders on Sisyphus’s sleepy shoulders
Unleashing nose-wrinkling odors of spoiled onion and meat
And when we finally find nature’s Swarga Loka
Our shriveled tongues panting for sweet relief
We dance in freezing waters like Sarasvati
And slide like skipping stones down smooth springs
A bucolic paradise of cerulean blue and emerald green
Oh, these halcyon days.
How do you mourn the living?
Bare hands dig a grave in unsullied ground
You bury the memories,
and pray a flower blooms.
Ode to My Blister
You, Unsuspecting foot meets Lego Lemon juice in my papercut You, Cassette tape strung-out Wasp sting on my middle finger I prodded and I pricked until the life oozed out of you Irritation abounds my cornered body Longing to run away once more And for you, You, thump on my funny bone, You, uneven eyeliner wing For you to disappear as fast as you forged Oh, how I wish you’d leave my cleaved sole How I demand you never return How I pray the pressure alleviates and the friction relieves How I long for you, You, ads on the radio, You, car in both parking spots, You, high-school-friend-turned-MLM, How I long for you to vanish, and I to heal.
And my Dog Steals a Hamburger from the Table
Mother begs me to apologize
Impassive I tell her
that’s just what dogs do
the meal was out for the taking
and my dog wasn’t trained well
but I can’t help but think
I am not unlike when Mary
goes to the bar and
Mike tries to slip his hand up her skirt
and the bartender says
she should have worn pants.
Common Ground
she was black coffee
pure, bitter,
unafraid of darkness
he added some sugar and little creamer and
she became the sweetest part of his morning. now she
is the one to begin his day, to make sure he is
feeling like himself. he will consume her 'til he
is well, he will sip her scent until her aroma has
become home. he will want to gulp her until she
is gone. he will surely burn his tongue on her fervor.
He is made of forgiveness
But what to do when I can’t forgive You?
Prayer hands around my neck
Tears against burning cheeks
like smoldered ashes
A nail for each leg, uncrossed
A flood, a fire, a death among friends –
Where does the omnipotent go to hide?
The Giver
He says buying flowers is pointless.
They die, you know –
Never expect them from me.
He prefers something long lasting,
a token to remember him by.
Is that why you colored my body black and blue
with your fingers like crayons?
Did you pray for the bellow of your voice
forever echoed in my head’s hallowed hush?
Did you not kiss me with lips so gentle after
slicing my mouth wide open,
so I could only taste blood?
Did you not plan banquets for my suffering?
You, the head of the table.
You, the guest of honor.
A bare plate lies before me,
while you smirk,
satiated.
Flowers die, he says.
I am the gift that keeps on giving.
messy wisdom 