lullaby, for then

&i can almost hear that song behind your eyes,
so i’ll fall asleep to that distant lullaby

i found the voice i lost, that strained
black whisper that scratched
through our songs -

it ran
alongside the lake
where the edge should have been:
so clearly an echo of you

&the words you once strung
like a chain round my neck,
there, shaking up &down:
black trees &again
upside down in blue mirror -
symmetrical ridge
of sound waves:

the ones i recorded
that day on the rock
as the water licked our bare feet
&our shoes fell victim
to the river’s pull -
or, mostly, to your pranks -
&i fell victim to hope

because the comfort of you
was familiar,
like the scratch of the soft
whisper-song
that i barely caught
from the rock where i prayed
before you came over
to hold me

with maybe’s and still’s
that i cherished like rings
&chains -
i recorded their cadence
in black whispered wave,
symmetrical sound…
but somehow it drifted away.

but i found it again,
last night round the lake -
the blackness of sound
against sheet -
so clearly the ring
of your whisper song scratch,
familiar,
then gone,
lost to day.

Thermal Shock

In the bluest flickers of guilty embrace
she used to wish to shatter:
to punish the familiar hand
that did so much to mold her;
to snap -
like Lennie’s mouse or doll:
all scarlet paint &porcelain skin,
undone by strokes &weight;
to stress &strain -
too weak for flame.

But kilns spare porcelain -
she’s far too strong to crack;
&so the flames, aware,
retarget their attack; they lick
the potter’s stroking hands,
&bluest blue, they scar,
mar the potter’s fragile skin…
this weaker than dear porcelain doll;
her need to break
breaks him.

melodic, cathartic

Two for tea
&sympathy
sip symphony
like steam:
enjoyed in sighs,
untied to time -
to ticking threats
of bitter cool
from after-hour steep -
still sweet
despite the lots
of pots &cups &leaf
&strained exchange
of tongue
&pain
&speech.

Two for tea
&sympathy
sit
&sip
&sigh
&reach to sweeten
burning words
of bitter hearts
&steeping hurt;
they sit inside
&all the while
the background song,
sweet soothing balm,
plays on &on &on.

It’s not the drink
they came here for -
it’s more, or less,
but, lovely:
the song’s what makes
the sips they take
of one another
melodic,
cathartic,
even despite
the painful strain
of sympathy’s lieue
&time’s exchange.

Two for tea
&sympathy
sip symphony
like steam.

you want to see me disappear – well, it starts here

not so much a poem as a tumblr-status spiel,
but i liked it enough to share it, so enjoy! 

see, that was the problem -
we were just about as far away from each other as we could possibly be.
forty-one million, eight hundred fifty-one thousand, four hundred forty-three feet.
minus maybe five, plus one for each of our widths…
ignore the rules of pemdas; they’re hard to reconcile with grammar.

so forty-one million, eight hundred fifty-one thousand, four hundred thirty-six feet apart,
balanced on roots because the grass was too wet &the bench was too hot
&the twigs &the leaves of the shady dirt below would stick,
we sat,
&we tried to feel close.

&as we talked through regrets &lines &changes we’d make,
the waves of our determined voices bounced &stretched &dwindled
as they strained their way over the waves of oceans &continental shifts -
till, by the time they made it to our expectant ears,
our adamant messages of goals &respect were lost to the diminuendo of that equator trip,
&all we heard from each other were the softest of intimate whispers.

then, some perfect illogic compelled us to move still further &further away -
to touch, embrace, collide.
forty-one million, eight hundred fifty-one thousand, four hundred forty-one feet away,
we shouted our whispers &ached to lose
whatever closeness still remained.

Reflective, Retrospective

What if it fell to the hands of the prodigal
daughters to close ours in prayer?
Extravagant, negligent, artists with pallets of mirrors
splatter their tears
till – there in the glass
that
breaks
like
extravagant, negligent artists recalling the fears
of
shattering years –
their
splattering tear
drops
grow
clear.

What if it fell to the tears of the shattering
paint shards to show us our own?
Emulate, echoic, caught in mosaics of years:
shattering fears
then – there in the art
that
takes
like
emulate, echoic daughters whose baby brown mirror
eyes
splatter their tears
down
shattering mirror
cheeks –
draw
near.

seeking the ashamed

a friend of mine wrote a beautiful poem, so i thought i’d try to write a response.  the first is his, the second’s mine; enjoy!

Without Words

Why won’t you sing me a song, Philomela?
I don’t care if it isn’t pretty
because it will be beautiful.

Shuddering dove with bloodied wings,
know that my dove was bloodied too.
Know that I was also speechless once:
my tongue uprooted and limp,
severed by a stranger or a friend.

But even speechless, we can groan.

Why be ashamed to groan
when God groans with us
with groanings too deep for words?

The words don’t always matter.
Even wordless, we can sing.

From the likeness of your lady

Why do you look for the living
among the deadened screams?
She is not here -
I am not she.

For she is risen, up,
on wine-dipped wings
through sky &sun &beams cast down
on rivers &
the water rites
of one more singer
set to soon transform…

But I, I am not she.
I never lost my voice,
my tongue;
he cut the rest, but left that sword
to ruin me
with songs – or screams -
much worse than grace’s groans.

I soaked my own white wings
with wrath
&envy – Juno’s love -
&screamed in gross
delight throughout:
through songs of homage
to my pain,
I worshipped bloody wings.

Victim, seek your
victim love
among the graceful, groaning doves.
Look, you, among the living birds -
&find the pureness you deserve.
Don’t look to me:
I am not she.
For she is risen
up on wings,
for she is risen,

&I’m fallen indeed.

*just for fun; experimenting with the realm of the ridiculous

the geese spluttered about awkwardly
like my brother’s dinosaur figurines
whenever they’d take over
our polly-pocket villas.

savvy geese.
they honked every time
you blinked,
together drowning out
the do-doo-doodoo-doo!
of our pokémon being
healed.

they shuffled their scuba flippers
across the gravel that, damp like dickinson,
shared its symphonic smell
with our memories of the el toro blacktop
on that day we escaped
the prison of indoor recess
only to slide like the faculty
feared we would
&scab our knees, together.

things like that teach lessons,
but not to kids like us.

we got no time-out;
just dora bandaids &dum-dums
that tasted like the air in ms. knofler’s classroom
whenever our classmates washed their hands.
do you remember that time she yelled at us
for eating candy in class?
but it was just that stupid soap again -
potent disinfectant of watermelon catastrophe.

i guess she probably yelled at us
because she knew, or, i guess, intuited,
that if we had had candy,
we’d’ve shared it with the geese
before we’d’ve shared it with her -
we would have shared with her, first.

the geese, you see,
they would have understood -
would have demanded three hail mary’s
&then moved the frick on; carpe diem.
or if not, then little tomboy aly
would have swayed them to forgive, fully aware
that friendships like those
will always be the ones worth holding onto.

geese as friends are wont to be that way.

they run out on the pavement with you
&wash their hands
in watermelon &rain,
shout yndi halda,
&stay your friend forever,
unless you’re name’s
pa-lala-polly
&your villa’s pink
&tempting to
their awkward,
spluttering
honks -
then, of course,
they watch you blink,
&attack
in potent catastrophe.