Viewing entries tagged
bodies

for a future laid bare:

less screaming - no wrestling with aluminum concrete men - not breathless

huskier - burnt eyelids blessed with trifectas of fingertips tracing less

harshly - still end at the temple - only for me - baby hairs growing coarser - still

i have no daughter - reasons vary from self-absorption to cystic - all

in the realm of intentionally costly - more privacy - must nonviolently

frustrate exposure - innumerable leaked intimacies - having dried in helvetica neo-neue

light - having spilled over the gaps - chiseled - indecisive countenance - an inverse

relation to mangling maroon veins - furred - furrowed - speculation

for this barren subtropical wolf

morning muriel, mother, et al.

dante has been resurrected to mean the same truths in my living room — the hellish blister

developing on tongue tip worrying me much —  a small red spoon — the sound of the screeching

cat in the alleyway i lament i ever fell for as a view made me know its name — ginger

boiled in large paper cups could’ve caused my wound – i always forget to be green

 

mosquitos buzz as my mother watches me swat — ‘why are you even still awake?’

i say to it — in the morning there are the wash sounds — the swish and smack

sounds — the frailty of the outdoor sinks — the reminder my underwear has soaked

far too long — the thought that the white mold is better than the black — and clap!

 

mother puts me down on her crimson sofa arm — screams for her not so puppy-pet —

i glance out to a photograph — questioning myself — in high school — it's far too high

up — noting forgetfulness of what walls are made of at that address — peripherally i have found

in The Life of Poetry — moving on from dante, in the next corner it is writ:

         A poem is an imaginary work, living in time, indicated in lan-

guage. It is and it expresses; it allows us to express.                    

                                                                                                         169

seared

a too small

raw brown pioppini mushroom

extended from the girl’s left orbital socket;

out it peeked from an old, yet inexplicable,

healed through hole in her flesh.

 

the doctors she conferred with in a state of horrified panic

told her there were more, anchored to her ethmoid bone;

the pressure and the angle of the gloved hand palpating yankingly

is a feeling rooted way down in her gut.

 

she stayed frazzled, pointing out such a small cap

to each potential savior in that dreamscape,

doling out a narrative of panic, alerting them all to her allergy,

and the concomitantly swollen scallop edges of her tongue.

 

strangely enough, when she awoke, she did not concern herself

with her eye places—for her mouth, she knew immediately, was far too small;

the seashell gifted her in a mirror located right inside her mind’s eye

transferred seamlessly to the one in her apartment bathroom.

 

she is sure now—the horror is clear,

her dreams deal in

pastel color and pain,

seared.