carrying memories she is slow turning to ash. in lieu of conversation,
she passes smoke.
the girl collects seashells, upturns them into bowls, fills them
with dried lavender & amethyst, in hopes
of luring someone new.
remembering is her favorite pastime.
she cannot hold her heart up without trembling, so she hides it
away in bottomless midnights, which are her grief, but are also her lust.
the girl is now a girl who is also a whale; full of unoccupied space.
it’s tragic how she displaces her emptiness with loneliness,
how she wants & wants & wants & needs to know why.
why the boy acts like he lives so far away from her
when his house is just a couple blocks south of ten
minutes & all that space lays still, loud as a snail’s cry.
& wouldn’t i know about crawling up inside oneself
wouldn’t i know about a body full of waiting
a floor, clean as a plate in a cupboard, holding nine other plates
on top of it
how it’s all so unbearable
holding love makes the girl feel helpless. she dislikes the period of
heavy pockets, of change her heart is
unwilling to make.
-
did you hear me?
i said i love you.
i said i still love you.
still. you.
dear Beyoncé (II)
why is it all so heavy…i of course mean my heart…but can i call it a heart if it has the reluctant tenderness of a blackberry…i slouch toward the window…i sit in the dark until someone comes in the room & turns on the light…what does it mean that i imagine my heart is a stampede of trembling rabbits…& why do i prefer hands to eyes…the hunger for a warm pulse…what is more savage than that kind of loneliness…i have kissed love on the lips & it did not fill me with anything other than smoke…what if the place where i keep my love is a cave…cluttered with mumbling grief…what if my heart only prays in the church of a mouth…& how can you believe in yourself to tell the truth when a lover asks you what you are afraid of…the more i come to know about snakes the better i understand…i am terrified of myself…i leave my skin all over the place…i am always digesting my last meal…
feed a fever, starve a cold
to forget
the artichoke heart
buries itself in leaves
to the source of the true hunger
to look full
to appear flush
*
my grandmother says
heartache is
a hungry caterpillar
that must be fed
so it can grow
wings
& fly away
*
the refusal of offered love
is some kind of death
*
to forget
the warmth of a smile
when it was smiling
at me
i wear scarves
& toques
before
the snow comes
i call this
being prepared
i am just
lonely
*
my heart
believes
his smile’s last words
were a secret handshake
i have not eaten dessert
since
*
if the bag
of carrot sticks
is full
i do not bother
counting
how many i eat
there are never enough
*
when my friend
tells me
i seem
smaller
i joke
i am
too young
to be
shrinking
when he says
no sabrina,
i mean
skinnier
& i tell him
not on purpose
i am not lying
*
i tell
my grandmother
i think love is
a hungry caterpillar
*
i am no meal
historically
i have never been
more
than a midnight
snack
poem from the beach trip
i ask why the birds are crying & learn that seabirds drink salt water & then cry out the salt through their tears & though i cannot say for sure i believe this to suggest the seabirds aren’t sad they are excellent at letting go cool i have woken up & cried for three mornings in a row each time felt as if there was a reason but i could not remember it i was hoping the seabirds might relate as i watch them fly my bones feel so heavy the tide is coming in & a bright moon crab digs bunkers into the sand to wait out the wave & the wave is endless & there are waves & waves & i am clutching my entire body tense as the moment you ask me what happened why am i crying again & the best answer i can give you is i can’t tell if the crab is still there
girl behind you
girl behind you / at the hardware store / carrying an item you’re sure i don’t know how to use by myself / & it mildly annoys me / that that’s not entirely untrue / my grandfather showed me how / but i will still YouTube a tutorial when i get home / anyway / i’m in line behind you at the grocery store / & i’m carrying the healthy variety of food that needs to be cooked for consumption & you are thinking to yourself / can this small girl really be buying these vegetables & spices for her household or is her mom waiting in the car / & it mildly excites me that i’m thinking i hope my boyfriend is taking a shower / i hope i get home somehow perfectly timed to his exit from the shower / & when i walk in the house / he walks out of the bathroom / & our eyes lock / our lips curl in canary smirks / & 5 minutes later / i am out of breath against the hallway / instead of evenly chopping cubes of sweet potato / but i’m in line behind you at Shoppers Drug Mart / or Walgreens / or wherever you go for toothpaste & condoms / & you are wondering why i am buying vitamins & not lipstick / you are wondering why my nails aren’t painted but i’m buying nail polish remover / you are making strange assumptions based on the unkept nature of my frizzy-ass hair / & this is why i have a hard time leaving the house / this is why i didn’t braid my hair or put it up into a ponytail / even though that would have made me more comfortable physically / i just knew it would make me appear even younger than i already do / & you’re thinking who cares / looking young is great / you’re gonna love that you look seventeen when you’re thirty / quit whining about a problem that’s not really a problem / & this is why i have a hard time talking about my anxieties / not the big heavy anxieties / but the small ones / the ones that change my earrings / & chip at my general level of self-esteem / the ones that gorge on celery & watermelon after a heavy weekend / crying quietly / standing in line / behind you / the girl you’re pretending not to notice
what i told the doctor, the second time
everything is in slow motion again.
breath the pace of an afternoon walk against the wind.
heart pulses like dormant volcano.
oscillating head.
my thoughts are spirographs;
think intricate patterns of loops,
think waves that never break.
my feet are two bowling balls headed toward the same strike,
but the lane
keeps
growing & growing.
my eyes have formed a reckless search party.
there is snow in the window but i see cotton balls on string.
each moment hangs in the air around me
a poem waiting to be plucked.
if i bite my tongue my mouth bleeds shark bait.
when i sit still my thoughts circle me
when i want to be left alone
i go out into the world.
in the center of me hangs a small bell,
i don’t know how to ring it,
but i’ve heard it ring.
i can’t stop thinking about when it will ring next
last Friday
lately / my mind has been
spinning the question / what
if i am the sound the tree makes
when it falls in the forest & no
one is around / but i think it’s more
likely that i am the no one / deaf to
the libraries falling all around me /
something like fifty-five million people
die / this year / so many stars
shot off into the darkness / & i’m trying
not to entertain these thoughts / on
the weekends / at least / tonight / my
friends & i / we sit around wooden
tables listening / to music made by musicians
who will never play these songs again / &
we only sing along to yesterday’s living / until
the record stops / & no one gets up to turn it
over / & someone shouts hey! did i already tell you
that i saw a shooting star last night? / & we talk
about how much we adore shooting stars / we
recall the coordinates of the last time
we each have seen one / like they are
some kind of collection of all our lost earrings /
elegant glistening we will never witness in the
light again / & before the conversation spins out /
i get up & flip the vinyl / my step-father
gave to me / so i wouldn’t have to inherit it /
someday / & i am grateful for that.
seven small ways in which i love d myself this week
i flossed.
*
while picking up fruit
& vegetables
at the market,
i
spontaneously
bought myself
flowers.
*
i practiced saying i love you
in the mirror.
not i love you because,
or,
i love you despite,
just:
i love you.
*
it rained,
i went for a walk &
did not bring
an umbrella.
& while my wet hair
reached for the ground
i kept my chin up,
i kept my eyes open.
*
i indulged in a donut
for breakfast
& did not step on a scale
afterward.
*
i held hands
with my sadness,
sang it songs in the shower,
fed it lunch,
got it drunk
& put it to bed early.
*
i did not think
of him.
not even once.
ode to sunday
dreams of kissing,
croissants come true.
this morning
sun, a full joy.
morning glories brave sprout through wood steps.
today slowly finds its balance
and it is here,
in the unsteady,
i find myself
for a moment
writing love letters
and lazy praise
to the calm wide open
you clean break / you swift waltz of untangling knots
you cathedral of roses / stop pinching your thorns
you damp wood / miracle / you / crackling campfire
you nervous firework
welcome yourself / back into yourself
you are a playground for dancing ghosts
you are unassuming music
you are dripping faucet / easy tears / winding river
you maple syrup tongue
how do you even talk about anything other than how sweet you are
you with your carousel of questions
you playground for dreams / & new dreams
you moon sugar / you honey cruller lullaby
look at you / sitting in the dark / unfolding
you nesting doll / you kind depth / you terrified bloom
look at all of this digging
look how you have chipped away at your nail polish / both hands
thought you had a garden / but it is a graveyard
so what / if you carry it / under your tongue
magic trick 004
the girl transforms nerves into charm.
“it was a please to meet you.”
“a pretty please,” she responds.
it starts
with a spark that makes static electricity look like longing.
i am spellbound by the smoke billowing from his Belmont cigarette.
like i am staring at his Belmont cigarette sat
snug between his lips like i wish my name
would. he is so cool. he is like the king of ice cream sandwiches.
like i wish my tongue was a drawbridge to his castle.
his heart is a stubborn pistachio. like i want to crack it open.
i want to play his heartstrings like a harp,
or rip out his heartstrings & like braid them into a bracelet.
like decorate me. i want to wear him.
since i met you baby
a Black Joe Lewis & The Honeybears erasure
I
tell
the doctor
is you
seconds after bumping into him on the street
there it is,
the bite of nostalgia bleeding.
how painful.
how painfully quick.
on getting over you for real
i recognized you by your shadow the spill of light from your
outline here is a love poem more important than the words i
never said how could i try to make you feel greener than my
side of the story this time i would tell you the deep
truth which is to say i would take you back into that maze just
to kiss you when you were most confused where i could have
been the one to make it clear love can live anywhere as
long as you acknowledge it Whitney Houston forced me to
acknowledge it in a dream long after she had died & there are
ghosts in every version of this story dreams that tell like fortunes
& cookies that seem to have fell from the sky something
like a song link via text message only there is no mystery
there except why & little would that matter now in
the terminal of an airport i am only passing through
an aesthetic of clean white tiles & it reminds me of that maze & it helps
me to understand it’s not that i was afraid to write the words
on the wall it was the shadows they would paint upon our clean
blank friendship & again i think what has not been can never
be lost too tempting a romance a beautiful ice sculpture swan but
how many times has my heart melted & aren’t you so tired of the
chipping away from loneliness’ sharp edge each winter & there
are too many perfect metaphors for the indie movie i’ll keep
on dreaming of writing i would write us wonderful & calm
though i know i wasn’t i was anxious & nervous & horribly
enthusiastic while far too involved in every moment & you were
casual you were unaware & who cares i am in the sky
now a shadow proving itself to be true a star a manifestation of
the words that describe the feelings i have moving far inside of
me & that is how i know it was real
i walked right into it into its neon center &
back out with too many muscles clutching memories of dancing
i bet your best memory of me gets no more attention than a smile
in your sleep & so it goes i don’t care i am just happy to
know you still smile happy to know i’ll see you around
magic trick 005
the girl lassos a shooting star.
she dissects its gooey center and finds a skipping stone
the girl sits down in a field of grass & stares at the stone for three years
until on the last day of one November it finally snows
& her mother calls her inside
& to hide it safe the girl swallows the stone
& it skips
on & on
inside her & further away
on & on…
follow-up a prayer / a spell
i am feeling better
so i say / good morning / & mean it
yes / today / is a good morning
to exhale / to feel joy
with the release of breath
i no longer need to be holding
i am not alone
because i feel alone
i am not alone because i feel alone
i am not alone because i feel alone / with company
when i look in the mirror i will find a reflection
of the gifts i am withholding from myself
light hits / everything at a different angle
i make a habit of tilting / my head
when the sadness waterfalls
i will let the salt cleanse the wounds i cannot see
i will let dance parties be the hospitals i heal in
if i need more help i will let the people offering help me
if i need more help i will let the medication help me
i forgive my body for being a machine after all
i forgive my memory for being
the cupboard door
that will continue to pop ajar
no matter how many times i push it shut
i forgive myself even if i am the last person i want to forgive
whatever i have come from / wherever i am going
i will remember the present as the place to start
today is a good day / to wake up / & be great
& have gratitude / for the relentless