04/08/18

“swing baby swing…”
arms flung straight
aside
chin craned skyward,
genuflect in raucous air,
oh how we are best-loved
when flying
“as i start to sing…”
or rather spread
our aliveness out
like fingers of breath,
become a chatterchorus
of cacaphonic sound,
“your favorite song”
let’s fill up all open spaces today,
rush into the cracks
of our own sadness
we are honey beings
baby, “let’s go dancing
(aye)…”

two poems published in Q/A Poetry

it’s an honor to have two of my poems published by a sharp, young poetry journal centering work from women, femmes, and nonbinary people. go check out Q/A Poetry. editors quinn rennerfeldt and audrey lawson-sanchez have planted something fresh here that deserves to grow! read the amazing work featured, and submit your own badass poems.

my poem “what to wear” is featured in issue #2.

my poem “firegarden (for frida kahlo) is featured in issue 3.

anguish and famine at their own intervals: stage notes

here comes
famine, the warring
spirit,
knocks over your tea
scoffs at the baklava

not precisely unkind
yellow-belligerent
will dance you from this
room while
you hug her neck, suck
like a baby

famine
if nothing else
will hold you.

anguish the goldenrod
flourishes in a corner
coming          spectacularly          undone
he cannot write your letter
of recommendation
                                                     all things
                                                     so busy belonging
to someone else
too much
                                                     to bear

(anguish pulls his cape tighter)

then here comes you
a lovely-quick stardust pocket
a cinnamon and sandalwood
girl-universe seeping
the tiny confines of body

famine falls before you
anguish splits open to pour laughter
at your feet

the only thing
they cannot do for you
is disappear

god-dirt, a musing

as far as days go, mine are vacillated between feeling like god and feeling like dirt.

i am both.

how do i reconcile these two beings?

full existence as one or the other, wholly everything or completely nothing, exhausts me.

either heaven is under my tongue, or my spinal column is pounded beneath people’s shoes.

descending from high hurts. forming dust particles back into a body hurts.

at optimal human-ness, i imagine people are balancing their sprawling possibility against their yawning insignificance.

a center, found.

harmoniously both god and dirt.

that’s where i need to be.

god-dirt.

keep your eye

[happy mother’s day! i hope you enjoy this poem i created for the may 5th services at all souls unitarian universalist church in tulsa, as part of my artists’ residency. the whole church is exploring the theme of truth for the month.]

keep your eye (interpolates excerpts from the song “anticipate” by ani difranco)

1.
“we don’t say everything that we could
so that we can say later, ‘oh, you misunderstood’”
in the story i heard,
someone else played the role of villain,
though my mother never revealed
their evil deed.
she just said it, like sliding
a note underneath the door.
when my mother doesn’t give
explanations willingly,
don’t even bother asking.
she clearly did not want to talk about it.

2.
fact: noun. a thing that is known or proved to be true.
eventually, we started having an affair.
both she and i, cheating on our respective partners,
all under the same roof, all under their noses.
after six months, we came clean, endured painful breakups,
then reuinited with our partners, and started cheating.
together. again.
i kept telling myself these lies:
that i was changing, becoming better,
but the truth is,
i never had good intentions to begin with.

3.
“i hold my cards up close to my chest,
i say what i have to, and i hold back the rest”
the internet became, during that time, its own magician.
people could prestidigitate themselves
into whatever they wanted.
so, that’s what i did.
slipped on new names, stole beautiful women’s pictures
made the boys of my dreams fall in love
with the girl i’d always wanted to be.
i wasn’t really lying to them,
not even about how much i loved them.
it was my voice, my feelings, my personality,
just poured into a package they actually wanted.
a package that didn’t look like me.

4.
qualifier: noun. a word or phrase used to attribute a quality to another word.
i do this thing
where i add words like “little bit” and “kinda”
to my statements. it’s a coping skill.
to make me smaller. to make me feel more protected.

5.
“you are subtle as a windowpane standing in my view,
but i will wait for it to rain so that i can see you”
my grandmother always said my parents left me with her
because i was sick. i believed for a long time
that they didn’t like me, didn’t want to be with me,
because i was sick.
my grandmother never told me how she convinced
my parents that my bronchitis would heal faster
if i were with her, that her house was warmer
than theirs.
better for me.

6.
omission: noun. someone or something that has been left out or excluded.
it felt like a betrayal to have ever had my uncle near us.
It felt like a betrayal that my mother never
told us what he did to her,
what he could have done to us.
he’s in prison now. for molesting another little girl.
i hate him.

7.
“for every hand extended, another lies in wait”
he told me he loved me. said, “in the unlikely event
that we don’t end up together, i will never
disappear from your life.”
what he didn’t say was that he was already
somebody’s husband, and five children’s father.

8.
“repetition is the secret to developing a powerful belief.”
listen. hear the chanting in the distance.
now, whether those voices encant
truth or lie,
bottomless love or brittle hatred,
they are doing the same work.
they are making themselves
believe

cradle

there is a house
in my imagination
strong enough to cradle all
this light in my belly
close enough, soft enough
to rock me when i stumble
indoors exhausted
from flinging rays out of me
bathing in its glow
as much world
as i can reach
& when i think of
this shack
this palace
this lean-to
firm-standing & wide open
as me
i weep
or either don’t
as often in God’s work
i am too tired
for tears

mornings

(a poem about mothering. in honor of my late grandmother, patsy johnson, who made sure i didn’t walk through this life uncovered after my mother passed away.)

mornings,
sunlight is a cruel authority.
my bones whisper one word:
“buckle.”
then the ocean-tide
of your sleeping breath.
the heartbeat of you.
i defy my skeleton’s
seductive stasis.
i move.
it does not matter that this
isn’t joy.
this is the slick-stout medicine
of what is.

mornings,
knees groan, feet swell,
and the warm architecture
of your forehead
instructs me: move.
this is no whimsical aching
in the blood.
no sweet thing.
this is the unquivering jawline
of a million women,
comprising the hand of God.
this, hard and simple.
because you are here,
i move.

melodies and play

[this is an impromptu poem i wrote during a service on creativity at all souls unitarian universalist church in tulsa, ok. i wrote the piece during that service, interspersing words and images therein, and then read the finished piece as the closing remarks. i hope you enjoy reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it!]

…and here is our standing

invitation

to come and play –

sleep has released us from its embrace

we have rolled lazily, groggily,

inventively into this day

spoons clink in coffee cups,

saxophones trade notes

with piano keys,

babies cry, dogs bark in the distance,

earth-breath of wind tickles the leaves.

we are part of the improvisational

symphony of living-

we paint it:

in ketchup on dinner plates,

in doodles in meeting agendas,

in finger traces across a lover’s cheek.

“the most elemental and in most

aspects of our being…”

connect us like a great

guitar string of consciousness

one to another, one in another,

we share in melodies of deep silence

and raucous laughter.

we dance it:

walking down the street,

stumbling tiredly into the supermarket,

hugging our loved ones.

if only we could see ourselves

in each moment

weaving and whittling new worlds

from the organic matter

of our oneness.

what color is your courage?

how will you choreograph

the dance of your

every single day?

build a fire in the form of memory

and let it guide us to new truths.

this is the day we’ve been given,

and the invitation is infinite.

you are never early or late,

the time is always now.

come.

come and play.

girls while

girls:
while you are young,
be the first to find your body.
unearth:
– arcs
– thresholds
– creases
– weeping
study and know
your flesh,
all goldenrod and godwrought.
let a man
discover it for you,
and you are sentenced
to years
of un-enslaving yourself
from his breath
his hands
the version of you he craves –
better to offer a map
of your borders, clearly drawn.
make him thank you
for every skin-trail
he is allowed
to walk

no more like this

where your breath is my bread
where my back is your
riverbed constant
my fingers your ribcage
my teeth your lucky
dominos
and i am immured in silent debt
a mortgage i pay to exist
next to you:
my blood your liquor
my wounds your airbnb
got at a steal
my story your:
-word bank
-dinner debate
-SEO content
-incipit receipt
my language your rendered fat
where i am scissors
self-incising
as you bear indifferent
consistent witness
i believe i am done
being a good woman