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Monday, October 26th, 2009
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I went through an age once,
when I dreamt three times a day
that a dark sparrow would swoop,
deep beneath the clouds,
and pluck me out of this white field,
acres billowing with uncertainty
and silence.
I imagined that he would tuck me neatly
beneath his oil-black wing
and carry me to a place
of color and magic,
where we could speak together
in wrapped-up tongues,
in clicks and squaks,
in bright agreement.
I can still smell the wind, there,
like woolen rugs, beaten with
the forearms of a sixth generation,
and dried figs, baking listlessly
in a round and inviting sun.
And the way it would get caught
within my thin, Scandanavian hair,
so unsure of the scents the air carried
that each strand would cling
to the spices and curls of smoke,
so that we could bring them back home
and breathe them in
before rolling up the covers.
But now,
my hair seems to have lost those smells,
and are beginning to fray
in a vivid want for an American boy,
closer to land and
farther from such an old world.
Somebody, it wants, who wears brown boots
and tends to climb over all the rocks in the road.
A man who forgets to scrub his hands clean
before breaking his bread,
which he does with a song from his belly,
and a mouth full of healthy, hungry teeth.
A man with thick bones
and tan lines,
and a mother who can French braid.
Truth be told,
my hair has been splitting
since it last felt the hearty hand of a lover,
some odd years ago,
and now my mane and I
have become lonely widows,
curled up in a bun,
writing love stories
we know so little about.
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Thursday, July 30th, 2009
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Over five years,
we've stretched ourselves
taunt as a drum,
begging to be
beaten, fingered,
and cooked dry.
After all of this,
my cold little
statue,
I suppose
I sort of do
see why you cower.
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Everything
is floating around me,
everything,
like a carousel
illuminated by
some innate
gratification,
simple joy.
Everything
is bobbing,
weaving in and out
of making sense
or making something.
Right now, I am
teetering
on a high-wire,
waiting for myself
to do
something.
Foreward?
Down?
Or shall I
spin
in large circles,
by my clinging toes,
to a consciousness
I only vaguely
recognize?
(My brain is all over the place today)
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Saturday, July 25th, 2009
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I'd like to dip you
into a pot of honey,
so that I could
lick your shining
arms,
and have
that nectar,
the taste of
our sweet,
smitten place,
our simple
adoration,
our easy,
easy love.
And when all of your
cold parts are
warmed and
mollified,
wrapped in gold
and ready
for a flighty mouth,
I will clean you.
Take my hands,
browned and
balmy as they may be,
and place them
over your
eyes,
below the sunlight,
so that you may
see through my
skin,
and see through my
bones,
blood,
and my need
for you.
Take my hands,
so that you may
see as I see.
Lift your tongue,
through the
shell of my ear,
delight in the weight
of every word
you've spoken,
every word
I've never forgotten.
Run over the
ridges of our past,
the thousands of
letters stacked
upon letters,
and sentences
coiled behind
theories and fables
we've parented
together.
Disentangle
your cold fingers,
those fingers I've
dreamt of
for five messy years,
and pour them
over my chest.
Lay them still
and you may notice
that your breath
is pushing
and tugging
with the sway of
my own.
Listen closely,
and you might
find that my
heart
is twinkling
quietly
along with
yours.
I'd like to take you
away to an island
off deep in the sea,
where only
two sets
of blushing lips
are our company,
where we
wind eachother
in white palm leaves,
and laugh
like children.
If I could protect
you, if I could
save you and
all of the glowing
jewels of our
past,
I would
build us a ship
and sail us
away from
where we have been,
because I see
how deep your lovely
feet are buried
here.
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Friday, February 27th, 2009
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Do you remember how you used to rub your thumb against the inside of my wrist when you tried to calm me down?
And the way your sheets smelled after we peeled oranges in bed and told eachother about our dreams, do you remember?
And the day you palmed my neck and pulled me in close, kissed me with your eyes open and a tattered letter in your back pocket.
We spent an entire summer in our pajamas, too, and took turns blowing smoke rings up to the sky like little halos leaving earth.
And then you wanted to paint your dresser pool blue, but once we dipped our hands into the can, we got carried away and made love together like two cold bluebirds swept up in the jetstream.
And we never told anybody.
I didn't mind.
Do you ever think about the night we sprawled ourselves on my roof and watched as three-thousand-year-old constellations illuminated the dark pieces of our limbs?
With unseasoned hands, we fell in love with every inch of oneanother.
Wasn't that the day you told me you liked the name Jason for a boy?
Sometimes, when I start my car up, there's a moment before the heater warms itself when the air smells like the days we used to spend together.
Do old street names remind you of us, like they do me?
I remember one afternoon we rolled down green hills and promised ourselves that we wouldn't wind up forgetting our lives together.
Do you remember?
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Tuesday, December 23rd, 2008
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There are mornings when I wake up
with my head stuffed full
with dreams where you are taller,
and my hair is longer,
and we live in a house
with a red-painted door.
And my hips are wide
with the softness of motherhood,
and you love it.
It's hard to forget, sometimes,
why or how or even if
we are what we are.
You are almost like a bright vine,
curling yourself around me
with such delicacy,
like your fingers,
soft and light.
But there are mornings when I wake up
and all I want to do is forget
any of it ever happened.
I know I'm not the only life
you feel the need to wrap yourself around
so lovingly.
Our lips are so shy to part
and I'm wondering if there's a good reason.
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Sunday, December 14th, 2008
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Since I can remember knowing you,
we have always had this quiet flame that stands between us,
like two old souls rekindled, or a pair of sleepy ghosts
who wake up slightly in eachothers presence.
I can see, when I look at you, that you're warming up, too.
But in so many ways you are galaxies away from me,
and I know we could never be more,
although I feel deep down in my belly that we were somehow
meant to be more, and so much more, and so much more.
You were reared in a very different world than I,
and even though our lives are so tightly intertwined,
and your mother kisses me goodbye,
I can't do more than smile at you from across the room.
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Saturday, December 13th, 2008
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I knew you well, once,
and now you sing with such conviction,
and your eyes are much bigger
than they used to be.
I'm not sure what happened
while we forgot eachother,
but you seemed to have sprouted up,
out of dirt and mud and soil,
into this delicate flower;
You appeared, now, to better understand
yourself,
and I almost trembled
when we spoke,
for I was gawky
with twenty extra pounds
added to my waistline,
and after I saw you,
heard you,
remembered you,
I had such trouble
regaining my balance.
You were beautiful before,
but now,
now your beauty floats
high above the heads of others,
softly and serenely in white warmth,
and I am glad to have known
how you got there.
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Friday, December 12th, 2008
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There is great pity to be had
for those who go without
the love of their mothers,
who root themselves
so deeply into an earth
that offers no fruit
to her children,
and who laugh so sadly
like wilting moths,
burnt by the open flames
of whom they hope to find warmth from.
She is cowering with her snarl,
so sickly and oppressed,
never taught to feel
anything except for the feeling
of survival.
But she is drowning her cub
in bitter licking
and strong stillness.
The strain of having gone
her whole life
without knowing the taste
of her mother's milk
is one that will never be eased.
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Tuesday, December 9th, 2008
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"You can learn to get used to anything,"
she told me as she shaved off all my hair.
I remember her fingers were thick and rough,
like they had been taught how to fight.
Then she brusquely patted my shoulder,
clad all in khacki-colored cotton,
and called for the next girl in line,
who was waiting with her hands
clasped behind her back,
as she was supposed to.
That first night,
after being screamed at
for the very first time,
I cried harder than I knew I could,
as quietly as a mouse,
and fell into an uneasy sleep
on the top bunk.
A few days later,
we all had to line up with our faces to the wall,
and pull down our pants,
just a little bit,
and try not to wince
while people we'd never met
poked us and rubbed us
like we were old meat,
trying desperately to get sold.
And then they sized up our feet,
and handed us two pairs of sand boots,
spanked our sore bottoms,
and told us to run along now,
haha.
Well, after all that,
we were deemed quarantined,
and sent out to sweep up the halls,
they gave us old rifles,
and two-quart water jugs,
that were tied up with jute,
and told us we'd need to hydrate.
Then we learned how to sleep soundly
outside, with june bugs and toads and beetles
all creaking like floorboards everywhere around us,
how to listen for foes
crawling out of the dark,
how to tell a hoof from a sole,
and how to paint our faces without brushes
or mirrors or paint.
After nine weeks in the Southern sun,
and fourteen kilometers of kevlar,
my face would never look the same.
My chin had been rubbed raw,
my skin, once olive-green and hopeful,
was now scarred with haste and worry.
I haven't much to show for it all,
except a boxful of sad letters
and a green duffel-bag stuffed to the brim,
with proof of who I used to be.
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Monday, December 8th, 2008
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If I had ever felt
some sharp flick,
small pang,
itty bitty little
twitch,
it came from you,
when you finally,
after three scattered years,
arrived on my doorstep,
all wrapped in black.
Even still,
you call me lovely
and wish me
sweetest dreams,
and you were one of the first
to shout, "baby!!!"
when firecrackers
were going off
all around you.
But I still
don't really know
why.
You've burrowed yourself
through my skin
like a gentle
little worm
somehow,
and now,
like a tickle in my throat,
you're always there,
even if buried
and slightly forgotten.
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Sunday, December 7th, 2008
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There's a fire in the air
that calls for a toast,
and you're always the first to stand.
A medley of lessons
surround your head,
like the crown of a well-read man.
Slowly, you're learning to scream.
There's a strength in your neck
that is new here today,
and I wonder how you came to find,
that the pieces of life
are so nice to dissect,
disassemble, undo, and unwind,
Slowly, you're learning to scream.
Your head is so big
with words you don't know
and your tongue is aglow with the taste
of something besides
the milk of your past,
as you eat the whole world up in haste.
Slowly, you're learning to scream.
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When I fall asleep,
there is always this
tiny face
lying next to mine.
I get to sleep soundly
every night,
listening to
this soft little breathing
and the flutter of a heart
that knows better than most
how to love.
When you fall asleep,
your hands,
so constantly speaking,
make humble songs
that tell what you're dreaming of.
Your fingers,
fine as silk,
though twice as lovely,
can't help but dance
through the night sky.
When I wake up,
there is always this little hand
reaching out to touch
a part of me,
even in sleep,
to make sure
I haven't taken flight
or left for breakfast
alone.
When you sleep,
there's this beautiful angelicness
to your face,
that is easy to miss
when your dark eyes are open
and round
and gazing,
and you look like wonder itself
in human form,
more like a bobcat
than an angel.
I've never had a more pleasant creature
sleeping in my bed. And, though your habit of
throwing your arms in all directions
makes you a bit of a
bedhog,
I would have to say
theres no greater way
to wake up
than to wake up
to you
sighing in your sleep
like you always do.
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Wednesday, December 3rd, 2008
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I feel like a glass of water,
on the brink of spilling over
every drop within.
I almost want to feel
completely empty,
lying draped over the tabletop,
dripping over the edges,
for the whole kitchen to see,
sip, mop up, brush away.
But right now,
my feet are too cold
to write anything meaningful
besides,
"brrrrrrrrrr."
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Saturday, November 29th, 2008
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In the way that you speak,
I hear something;
There's a secret,
all tied up with twine,
lying at the bottom of your windpipe...
and it's screaming for me
to reach in
and grab it,
pick it up,
pluck it out of the darkness
that is inside you.
It wants to whisper in my ear
little tales of what it has seen you swallow.
It wants to chirp on my shoulder
little songs about the way you digest
the bites of life.
Although it may not have
a whole lot to tell.
You've always been a nibbler.
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Sunday, November 23rd, 2008
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| Time: | November/23/08 @ 12.21pm |
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Although a good number of my writings are public,
there are even more friends' only entries.
Leave a comment and add me to your list
and I will do the same!
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I want to talk about broken windshields,
and the smell of rainwater,
and how when I hear your voice
my throat snaps shut
like somebody tapped my knee with a hammer.
Reflexive romance.
We never had anything
except day-long conversations
fueled by frustration
and cocaine.
Until you bought me waffles
all covered in berries
and told me that I smelt
a little bit like walnuts,
I had no idea
you even remembered us.
I was better now,
a college girl
with big eyes
and a head full of smart words,
my scars had faded
and I just wanted to kiss everything.
You were two months sober,
a little like a statue,
with your cheekbones
and your long, white arms.
And you were warmer than before,
but I was still too afraid
to lose you.
Or find you.
We never understood.
And when you thought I had left
to Afghanistan, Baghdad,
somewhere dusty,
your throat snapped shut, too.
I could hear it in your voice,
miles away.
You made up your mind
to fall in love with this life
inside of me.
It was a boy.
Your eyes were feverant
with images of us
doing things normally
for once.
You were fulfilled.
And when you saw me at Christmas
with my hair all grown out,
you hugged me in a way
that I didn't know you could
and we made plans
to bring in a New Year
together.
The last time we spoke,
you explained that it was back
and you were struggling
against some predisposition
for weakness.
But it's okay.
We have gone through this
so many times,
and I know, regardless,
I would be too scared
to hold you any closer
than a shard of glass.
And you know
I'll be around.
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Friday, November 21st, 2008
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He was a thick resolve,
quickened breath,
stale, closed, controlling.
She was like an empty vessel,
her voice whispering,
"Fill me."
"Make me whole again."
And so he did.
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Thursday, November 20th, 2008
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I watched El Espíritu de la Colmena
while eating eggs yesterday evening.
The Spirit of the Beehive.
I fell asleep with a ringing in my ears.
I got up to write throughout the night eight different times
and decided I wanted a pair of brown, leather shoes
and white woolen stockings.
But if it means losing
what little dignity I have left,
and cutting off all my hair,
I don't think I'm ready.
The world, it is browning
underneath the weight
of so many locked boxes.
When I finally fell asleep,
I dreamt that I owned the key.
Do you know the peace clock?
Or the one about my healing baby?
Or even the midnight-blue ball,
who screamed for omlettes,
ready to slice?
My dreams are billowing
inside my head.
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I was three years your senior,
it showed in your skin
and in your wide, wide eyes,
and the way you would scowl at my cigarettes.
You picked me flowers
on balmy springs nights.
We drove to the skies
and sat together, like little birds.
Lying naked in our cold campsite,
the whole world floated by.
I chopped wood.
You sang to me in Arabic;
sweetheart,
honey,
darling.
Give me all of you, I begged.
I'm sorry I broke apart and crumbled,
after that stagnant phone call,
when I started wearing steel-toed boots.
You, still warm from the Kuwaiti sun,
hoping against hope that all of these dreams
we scrawled in loving haste
in sad, wrinkled letters to oneanother
would actually happen.
Regardless of how late
my mouth met yours,
I thought you should know,
I do remember.
I just wanted to say
thank you.
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