Posts Tagged ‘writing’

between the lines

July 7, 2015 1 comment

I ask the easy questions: how are you? How has your day been? I talk about the storm, the lightning, prattling on about work. As if that’s really what I’m thinking about. As if I’m not wondering about your hands, your mouth. As if I’m not trying to say I miss you in a thousand different ways, but the words vanish when I open my mouth. I’ve gone soft. That is to say, afraid. That is to say, silent.

I don’t want to be the one who says it again, first. The silence after leaves too many scars. And I’ve gotten really bad at waiting, but I don’t say that either. Instead, I ask about work, if you’re ready for what’s ahead. I know the question has more than one meaning. Neither of us acknowledges the wake of it. You give me the easy answer, but I hear the way your voice dips, that half growl. I picture too many things and begin to stammer.

I wonder what you’re thinking – how loaded is that shotgun in your heart? Do you hear the bullet in my teeth? Every now and then, it whispers: you’re going to have to swallow eventually.


Categories: poem, prose poem, Writing Tags: , ,

Uncanny Magazine’s Content Is Live

June 2, 2015 2 comments

Darlings, the second half of the May/June issue of Uncanny is up, for free, on the magazine’s website. So, if you wanted to read the rest of the content (YOU DO), you can. In particular, if you wanted to read my piece (YOU DO), wander over here:

I hope you enjoy the magazine as much as I did. Every piece is absolutely gorgeous, and I’m beyond grateful to have been a part of it. That poem is especially close to my heart, and I’m so thrilled it found at home with Uncanny.

Categories: poem, Poetry, Writing Tags: , , , ,

without bones

April 13, 2015 3 comments

It’s never the time
or the place; we’re never
quite alone enough
to let go, hands like rivers
and mouths like deserts,
we are always thirsty,
we are, and we are not, enough.

There is no blueprint
for magic, but if there were,
it would look like your smile,
the way stars gather
in secret
when you laugh, and how
home curls up
in an afternoon
when no one is looking
for us.

Tell me
how the sky is a miracle
without any edges. Then,
give me your mouth
like a magnet, offer
attraction as extraordinary
evidence against the mundane –
there is no bottom
to this want, and somewhere
in the wild night,
a wolf howls, explaining
how rivers move
with a ferocious grace, quietly

What I wouldn’t give for wings –
that is, time. That is, you.
Yes, this is the wrong moment
for anything called love,
but here it is, broken open
like a bad sentence, tender
and without bones – what will you do
with it? What will you do
for it?

Categories: Uncategorized Tags: , ,

Prayer for the Days of Parking Lots

January 13, 2015 Leave a comment

Remember the lights
and the inconvenient timing,
hearts showing up
to find hands, love
in the time of early mornings
and parking lots,
split open to reveal
only the best parts –
now, I have sticky fingers
and too much rain.

This winter
has become a river
inside my heart, unsteady
and wanting, with gravel
and glass for hope,
an unconventional mess
of beauty, an unsaid
prayer for the days
of parking lots, hands
like kerosene,
when you conjured fire
and we only thought
we were alone.

We have tried on every season
like stars, our bodies
as certain as the night sky,
and this is how we always found our way
home, kisses like constellations
and stories arriving
in sighs – all before
the moon had a chance to sleep.

I want the ancient creak
of mornings and the sound
of footsteps on old pavement,
waiting around corners
for doors to be unlocked
and the chance
to kiss hello – the hour
may have been angry
with the dawn, but I was never
unsure of any minute,
that small scored out piece
of an unexpected heaven
was ours
yours and mine.

Let’s forget
the frail hands of fear
for stronger secrets:
I’ll bend if you will,
come on now –
you know where to find me.

Categories: Uncategorized Tags: , ,

honest monsters

December 5, 2014 Leave a comment

Something always
goes wrong, and we end up
here, lost in a language
made of rain boots
and untied shoes, leaving
the windows open
in winter, boundaries
earned in inexplicable ways –
I’m a postcard girl,
always so close to leaving,
always wanting to stay.

But here we are:
a man, a woman, a coward,
a moon – an easy study
of separation, inherited thorns,
and something that calls itself
relief when it’s really flight
we take turns ripping out the garden,
guessing at what might’ve grown.

If you put me on a scale,
I’ll weigh no more than a photograph –
the idea of something, a memory
gone gray around the edges,
and this story is old
but repeating, feelings
so bright they’re bleeding,
heart an unsleeping
crime scene –
okay, yes: I miss you.
So, what?

There’s only ever one train
to this city; we both live here,
we’ve both left, and we always
come back, carrying words
like new pennies, kisses
like vanishing points, full
of last spring and everything
we’ve yet to learn, convinced
there’s a new bravery
in place of our spines, that ruin
is not our only gift, that love
may not be the first sin
but it is the last,
and this is war
and this is peace,
but I believe I can hold us,
so, give me the stars again
and I’ll give you the keys,
fear dissolving in light,
let’s invent new ways
to become who we already are.

I was born
for this, hands open,
heart full of ugly gods,
honest monsters –
I am always, but you
are not sure
how to love me, your
body a surrogate
for fear, but it’s time
to lean in, skin to skin,
shut the windows
and begin, watch
what I can do with my hands –
sometimes yes
is the answer to all questions.

Categories: poem, poems, Poetry, Writing Tags: , , ,


November 26, 2014 7 comments

This is what I was:
a happy accident, heart
like wolves running
alongside train tracks,
a bomb in every kiss,
a repeated mistake
that split your life
in two. Do you know
how it feels to be somebody’s
shouldn’t? How that revelation
bleeds into not good enough
a reminder than possession
is nine-tenths
of the law, and everything
about me is empty.

This is what I am:
an alarm, a hurricane
without notice, the reason
you can’t go home,
the reason you have no home –
tell me: which one
of us is the arsonist,
which is the impossible fire?
Your bones
are all excuses, so
I hardly think names matter:
you’ll just deny everything.

This is what I’ll be:
gone, left, leaving –
the broken blood
of a clock, unwound,
a prophet
with too many hands
and not enough feet –
it was never in me
to run, no matter
how sweetly you kept
asking – my loyalty
somehow managed to be
a disappointment.

This is what I could’ve been:
a safe house, yours,
heart like a prayer
against the growing dark,
sweeter for the dance
you didn’t know
how to ask for, a blueprint
for freedom
in a body built with the word
love. Miraculous
was my name, once; I knew
how to die, but keep on living,
pain was a parlor trick
of heavy secrets, unnecessary
to explain. But now,
this leaking heart
is a magic to you took
for granted –
don’t you dare forget:
you chose this
and I have to live with it.

Categories: Uncategorized Tags: , ,

you once told me I was like gravity

November 9, 2014 Leave a comment

(for C)

If I were an elemental force, an accepted
science, you think it would sever you
from responsibility. A rock falls,
and so do you – perhaps
we are both falling things, prey
not to each other, but to circumstance,
it’s easier to believe
the pull is inevitable,
an orbit, not a heartbeat,
an inescapable conclusion, not
a feeling – atoms splitting,
something neither created nor destroyed.

Compatibility was never our problem,
and there’s no way to solve
for X without admitting
the existence of Y, and maybe
that’s the trouble – you still believe
that the world is flat, and there are monsters
and the ends of it, and an unreturned
phone call is just your way
of substituting science
for love, as if a drought
proves the inexistence of water.

But you overlooked the relationship
of one to the Other –
the straight line might be the fastest
method, but it’s rarely anything more
than one side of a three-sided story,
and if you’re looking for the angle
best for disappearing, it is an inactuality.

Gravity has a right to expectation,
reliability, an agreed upon reaction
wherein an apple meets the earth
like your hands meet my body, lips
finding each other, until we are
more than an experiment,
we are a proven theory,
our science taken at its word,
evidence without entropy –
gravity is without recourse,
and our distance is without relevance,
we are not impossible,
so whatever made you think we were?

Categories: poem, Poetry, word things, Writing Tags: , ,

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