#48.

poem #58.

58.

A long time ago, my boyfriend asked me: "How much do you weigh?"
I answered honestly, "140", and watched his eyes roll back in his head.

"That much!? REALLY?!?"

I just looked at him, silent, stinging, confused. (He didn't seem to
mind my body when he was inside it.)

"If I had control, you'd be 115."
Smirk. Sit back. Point made.

I should have slapped him, scratched out his eyes,
done womankind a favor. Instead, I laughed it off,
the cool girl, always. Say whatever you want,
treat me like shit, I don't care.
Later, in the bathroom, I cried until my stomach hurt,
until I'd convinced myself I was ugly down to my bones.

It took me years to understand that he was a blind man,
sleepwalking the narrowest path. Took me a while to know,
that if I undress for you, I am giving you a gift. That your
hands, tongue, and words should honor me.

It took me years to see that it gets better.
Years of choosing myself so I could choose wisely.
Choose someone who unwraps me carefully.
To choose the life where my breasts swing,
my thighs jiggle, my eyes shine, and I smile because

I am fully awake.

poem #29.

29.

Here

place this crown of flowers

                on my head--

dip your fingers in the paint,

blue,

and press them  into my cheeks.

i want to feel like a paper boat in your palms

i want to feel as beautiful as the moon

Hive

The room is filled

with late-day light.

We sip our coffee

inside a genie's lamp

inside a honeybee hive

Paper cranes dot the table,

lay across the floor

like tipped over canoes.

made from grocery lists

love notes

and reminders

Slanted writing on wings and belly.

You help me thread twine through

the sharp neck folds--

they hang like animal-clouds

above our heads.

the room with honey light

paper

coffee

and flightless thought

#47

47.

That field
in the middle
of the trailer-park.
The grass laced around my ankles
when I ran; like hair, I imagined.
The hair of an enormous,
dirt-woman-creature-goddess.

In the middle of the field
was a hump of earth,
a wave of soil and rocks.
You could hide from view
behind it,
myself and the others;
the girl with food-stained clothes,
the noisy boy
who pinched us too hard
and laughed.
That small hill saw
my first draw from
a cigarette, when I finally
learned to french braid, how much
I cried over being so poor.

There was always too much dust there.
Hostility, intolerance, beer cans
rattling in the wind like tumbleweeds.

But there was also this:

The blackest night sky.
Guided by memory out of bed
and into the night.
To stand in the middle of nothing,
privileged to see every star.


*from my poetry journal

all i can handle.

I feel like
the sharp edge
of something

It makes you
ravenous
for the hand of God

1 a.m.

I worry
that I gave away
my beauty
too often

And now it runs from me

writing at night.

Untitled

Give me

His hands moving

his hands

down

my

back

At the window

We watch a leaf

curled

like old parchment

hop down the street

his lips on my hair

A prayer in the morning

I want Him to know

(He already knows)

I can't feel anything

until I've been touched

it writes.

Sunday Morning


Violet light spreads
like watercolor,
patterns blooming over the walls

The white quiet of morning
except
the squeak of your feet
They scamper across wood

The bed sheets rustle like
handfuls of peonies
A blue-jay presents himself,
his squawking call bring us
out of our morning fug

You are warm and
slightly sticky
You smell of peanut butter
and shampoo

You smile as you nest down,
triumphant
We will pretend to sleep--
another ten minutes perhaps--
before you spring up electrified,
Demanding pancakes for breakfast

**from the journal, 4/21/12