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.
Tag: Poetry
-
Polaris
-
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 