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how do you even talk about anything other than how sweet you are
depression & other magic tricks
sabrina benaim
DEPRESSION & OTHER MAGIC TRICKS
POEMS BY
Sabrina Benaim
© 2017 by Sabrina Benaim
Published by Button Poetry / Exploding Pinecone Press
Minneapolis, MN 55403 | http://www.buttonpoetry.com
All Rights Reserved
Manufactured in the United States of America
Cover Design: Nikki Clark
ISBN 978-1-943735-20-4
Ebook ISBN 978-1-943735-26-6
first date
hello. when i say hello, i mean thank you. when i say thank you, i mean i adore you. when i say i adore you, i mean i will check your horoscope. i mean when you leave the balloons that you carry in your laughter behind on my ceiling, well, i like them better than flowers. my body is a garden rooted in gratitude. thank you is the biggest poem i’ve got inside of me. oh, me? i am a campfire cold hearts like to sit around and roast their marshmallows in. when i say campfire, i mean tiny furnace, little light lady. i mean i am not the path of least resistance. but i swear, i was struck by lightning. bang! boom! wow! this one time at Coachella when Jay-Z brought out Beyoncé - i mean, i am flawless…procrastinator. my heart is a messy bedroom i always distract myself from cleaning. i digress…when i say Beyoncé came out, i mean fireworks went off and i cried. when i say i cried, i mean i taught the clouds how to cry for me, dig? i wouldn’t say i’m sensitive, i would say i’m highly susceptible to feeling a lot, and “sometimes there just ain’t enough rocks.” Forrest Gump. when i say my feelings are a box of chocolates, i mean i like to eat them. i also like to get high enough to look myself in the third eye. when i say i like to get high, i mean, sometimes, after i shower i thank the towel. snap, crackle, or pop? me? pop. i mean i’ve got this violent tendency to see a bubble and want to pop it. which is to say: i have held love, but i popped it and locked it, then dropped it and lost it. i didn’t mind. love made me feel like i knew the answer, but when i raised my hand, i was the only one in the room. what i mean is, have you ever felt the ache of swallowing starlight? that cinnamon heartburn? what i mean is, his name is a plate set at the table of my tongue because i learned love like wait for it. if i called the last person you said i love you to could they tell me they felt it? can you feel this? i’m allergic to liars, they cause my tongue to swell and sharpen; bullet flesh tongue. what i mean is my kiss tastes like a shotgun to the lips. you’ll like it. it’ll make you feel brave. my first crush was on Benny ‘The Jet’ Rodriguez. that boy ran so fast, he could fly by foot. if i were an animal, i would be a hummingbird. when i say hummingbird, i mean sometimes my hands forget how to hold, become two teacups in an earthquake. i am a rattle of splintered bones. when i say my body, i mean blunt guts and then some. my instincts are miraculous. i spent an entire year sleeping on a bed of swords and was not cut once. what i mean is my lonely looks a lot like insomnia when you hold it up to the light. what i mean is if i came to you, lonely as a grocery store parking lot at 5am, blowing smoke rings but pretending they are halos, could you believe in the magic? not beauty, not the beast, i mean enchanted castle. my body: space jam. my toothy smile has ways to tell anything else than the truth: flight response. do you ever sit on the end of your bed and listen to the world spin? i hear that song everywhere. when i say that song, what i mean is time. time is a holy catastrophe of heirloom clock faces that don’t fit my wrists. the only instrument i know how to play is a muscle. i like my body best when i am not worried about how much space it is taking up. i mean dancing. when i say dancing, i mean shimmy-and-a-shake-and-a-womp-womp-drop. my swagger has moves like it sleeps in a waterbed. i mean my seed sleeps in its shell. i am best prepared for the worst case scenario. the best case scenario scares me. flight response. my mother tells me i am a bird. when she says i am a bird, she means the whole world is my cage. in my dreams, i can fly, and there is no such thing as a cage, meaning there is no such thing as time. i have been here before. i mean i recognize that moon. i know, there are many moons, and my gratitude eclipses them all. so, i say thank you. thank you when i mean hello.
it’s a pleasure to meet you, reader.
my hope is that this book might be
a friend, a reminder, a testament
that the first step to connection is communication.
thank you & hello…
contents
first date
*
hurdles / dreams
the slow now
explaining my depression to my mother a conversation
what i told the doctor
self(heart)-portrait
a story // my father moves to another country & there’s no way to say i’m sorry if you aren’t
nature versus nurture
single
the loneliest sweet potato
that awkward moment
minnows
better together a Jack Johnson erasure
magic trick 001
untitled (i)
untitled (ii)
so, i’m talking to depression…
girl beside you
a plain truth
magic trick 002
dear Beyoncé (I)
how to unfold a memory // the kentucky heartbreak shuffle
house of cards a Radiohead erasure
how to fold a memory
gravity speaks
the other side of a memory
on releasing light
magic trick 003
poem from last august california trip // yearly maintenance
i press shuffle & Lauryn Hill comes on…
another plain truth
on the last gesture between us
poem from the moment after you left for chimwemwe
on platonic love being a real thing
so my friend tells me she identifies as a mermaid…
avowal
on keeping your damn feelings to your damn self
unrequited in nine acts
dear Beyoncé (II)
feed a fever, starve a cold
poem from the beach trip
girl behind you
what i told the doctor, the second time
last Friday
seven small ways in which i loved myself this week
ode to sunday
magic trick 004
it starts
since i met you baby a Black Joe Lewis & the Honeybears erasure
seconds after bumping into him on the street
on getting over you for real
magic trick 005
follow-up a prayer / a spell
what you see is what you get,
but that’s not all there is.
-my grandmother, Jean
hurdles / dreams
new earrings / new ring formation / new kiss goodnight / most weekends / still falling asleep / in the middle of the bed / sometimes / i am / little lady / who wishes herself a flower / that wishes itself a balloon / how i always want to grow / high / get above it / i am / not here / to look at the dirt / beneath anyone’s fingernails / oh / the tricks we use / to distract ourselves / how they don’t always work / i still dream of you / sometimes / i wake up / with a basketball inflated / in my chest / sitting atop my rack of ribs / waiting / for an in
vitation / to dribble / on your court / of course / at your court/ it’s patio weather / like / all the time / right / imagine me / sticky as a popsicle stick / with feelings / all / parched hands & clammy tongue / hungry for a kiss / then / there is the dream / that reoccurs / the wicked game / where you pretend / you are a ghost / & i talk to myself / in rooms full of strangers / or / the impossible dream / where your hand / slips / & your fingers / weave / easily into mine / or / the one i am inside of the whale’s mouth / i yell out / for you to come join me / “i’m sorry it’s so dark in here” / i tell you / but i am not sorry / for the darkness / only that it makes you so afraid / or / worst of all / the dream i cannot seem to wake from / i am jumping days like hurdles / for months & months & months / to get over you / why do i think it’s possible / to write the bricks out of a wall / why am i banging my head / against a brick wall / begging / please please please / for a different memory / one where the lilac wind did not lick my eyelashes / that way / where i look at you / & in my head Joanna Newsom does not sing / ‘you are starry starry starry’ / i know / none of it makes sense / i know / trust me / there is no sleep for this lonely / no birds / this morning / only the sound of my upstairs neighbors / making breakfast / at least / they aren’t using the blender / at least / their baby girl isn’t crying / & neither am i / anymore
the slow now
this morning said
do not press snooze.
you pressed snooze
but
only once
congratulations
while brushing your teeth,
your reflection in the mirror also said:
congratulations.
you said
thank you
out loud
to every cotton swab in the blue box
& blue seashell on the shower curtain
you filled your kettle with cold water,
set it on the hot stovetop, to boil
this morning said,
get dressed.
you sat
mostly naked
on your bed
watching YouTube videos
of Amy Winehouse
singing back to black
for thirty-six minutes
you rummaged through a drawer
found a bra
put it on
you put on black tights
tried on four dresses
finally decided on the black & white flowers one
nineteen minutes later
you put on a sweater
& you sat
fully dressed
on your bed
for five minutes more
you say hello to afternoon.
afternoon asks
if you plan on leaving the house today.
you pick up the phone
say
i am starting the pills again
tomorrow
i have a doctor’s appointment
first thing in the morning
your mother responds,
didn’t i tell you to do that two weeks ago?
explaining my depression to my mother
a conversation
mom,
my depression is a shape shifter;
one day it is as small as a firefly in the palm of a bear,
the next, it’s the bear.
those days i play dead until the bear leaves me alone.
i call the bad days
the dark days.
mom says try lighting candles.
when i see a candle, i see the flesh of a church.
the flicker of life sparks a memory younger than noon;
i am standing beside her open casket,
it is the moment i realize every person i ever come to know
will someday die.
besides, mom, i’m not afraid of the dark,
perhaps that is part of the problem.
mom says i thought the problem was
that you can’t get out of bed?
i can’t.
anxiety holds me hostage inside of my house, inside of my head.
mom says where did anxiety come from?
anxiety is the cousin visiting from out of town
depression felt obligated to bring to the party.
mom, i am the party.
only, i am a party i don’t want to be at.
mom says why don’t you try going to actual parties?
see your friends.
sure, i make plans.
i make plans but i don’t want to go.
i make plans because i know i should want to go,
i know at some point i would have wanted to go,
it’s just not that much fun having fun when you don’t
want to have fun.
mom,
each night, insomnia sweeps me up into its arms,
dips me in the kitchen by the small glow of stove light.
insomnia has this romantic way of making the moon
feel like perfect company.
mom says try counting sheep.
my mind can only count reasons to stay awake.
so i go for walks, mom, but
my stuttering kneecaps clank like silver spoons
held in strong arms with loose wrists.
they ring in my ears like clumsy church bells,
reminding me i am sleepwalking on an ocean of happiness
i cannot baptize myself in.
mom says happy is a decision.
my happy is a high fever that will break.
my happy is as hollow as a pin-pricked egg.
mom says i am so good at making something out of nothing,
and then flat out asks me if i am afraid of dying.
i am afraid of living.
mom, i am lonely.
i think i learnt it when dad left;
how to turn the anger into lonely,
the lonely into busy.
when i tell you i’ve been super busy lately,
i mean i’ve been falling asleep watching sportscenter on the couch
to avoid confronting the empty side of my bed.
my depression always drags me back to my bed
until my bones are the forgotten fossils of a skeleton sunken city.
my mouth, a boneyard of teeth broken from biting
down on themselves.
the hollow auditorium of my chest swoons with echoes
of a heartbeat, but i am a careless tourist here,
i will never truly know everywhere i have been.
mom still doesn’t understand.
mom,
can’t you see?
neither do i.
what i told the doctor
the eyes are not reliable.
not windows. not mirrors.
my ears have eroded,
leaving two broken telephones.
my hands have embraced what they always have been;
two grasping panics, two torches to everything i love.
feet - nothing more than two rocks some days.
& my heart has developed a kind of amnesia,
where it remembers everything but itself.
self(heart)-portrait
honey, yeah, sticky, but
sweetsweetsweet. swollen
sweet home, or
swollen lonely abandoned
house. temporary kingdom,
crown, that is not for keeps.
plump sour cherry. set in the
sun to dry, a dress handed
down from my mother. my
grandmother’s finest teacup,
half-full of dust and collecting,
still. fistful of pulse. flightless
balloon. awaiting pop,
or deflate. a fickle framework; i am
a clock i cannot tell.
a story // my father moves to another country & there’s no way to say i’m sorry if you aren’t
it’s the night befor
e we arrive in San Francisco, which is, so far, my favorite night of our three week trip. we are somewhere on the coast, at a Holiday Inn. our room is standard: two beds, a TV, a mini fridge. we are each sprawled on our bed, atop the covers. you have a conference call with the office in China for work, on our vacation, so we are staying in for the night. an acceptable consolation: you toss me a twenty to raid the vending machine. while i stock up on chocolate bars i think to myself this isn’t so bad. while waiting for your call to come in, we catch a marathon of The Golden Girls, and gently into the evening, like two kettles of boiling water, we are laughing at all the same parts.
it’s tomorrow and we are in San Francisco, finally. after a day of being holed-up in your car, we’re sitting at a patio table at Fisherman’s Wharf. sea salt breeze, i keep licking my lips. we have a whole crab on the table. you played Grim Reaper and picked him out on the way to our seats. i’m also tipsy from splitting this bottle of white wine with you. of course this is cool of you to do: split a bottle of wine with me. i’m two months shy of my twenty-first birthday. i don’t realize dinner with you now is much easier than it will be in the future.
looking back, that trip was one of our better ones, if not the best. i bought my leather jacket on that trip. it’s been my main choice in weather protection for the past seven years.
it’s weird…how a jacket can be more reliable than a father.
nature versus nurture
it has been said that i am just like my father.
this might explain why most days,
i dress up in my mother’s clothes.
use her signature shade of scarlet to paint my lips a familiar smile.
i do not use her signature trick of turning her heart inside out,
the way she showed me, to wear her softness as bulletproof vest.
armor is for women who have something to lose,
in this way, i am not like my mother;