Cassy Brown

A new chapter was emerging

and one I didn’t feel I had

the time

to witness

.

Loneliness

is a forgotten art

and a dimly lit bedroom

I call upon

.

Unkempt

In my hot arms

folding into

the covers of gravity

.

I learned little

jumping from one host

to the next

digging

.

Flesh on flesh

forgotten (you will always have meant something to me)

Feels

(like a season for now)

finished

.

10.29.20

Poem by Cassy Brown

I brought this bag of belongings with me

filled with birds, a tiger, a sprinkling of ink pens

when smoke coats the air

lungs are a brazen, tannined tomb

.

I cannot tell who the weather decided to be this lazy morning

sit out on a sunlit day when she gleams

lose myself in oracles of dancing white

sit in on a day of her tears and lose myself still

.

in the shadows

It took an unspecified amount of pacing to revive

what it is to rest- I am still embodied

by a buzzing that will not settle on a rose

.

My fingers are bowing and I have hollowed

the hope scooped out of me like a gourd

a dense scraping thick and constant

gutted. guttural

.

It’s not much of a feeling at all

rather the remnants of memories

that were once embued

driven out by a dull yellow yearning

.

8.2020

Irish coffee

espresso, smooth

Grandiose

From a bottle polished

In ways I am not

.

Chaotic, not stable

words my brother used to describe me

.

What is your story?

asked indirectly

leaves me stooped

How do you answer such a question?

.

He rails off places lived

occupations worked

institutions studied

hopes for the future

I am hollow

.

There is no climax I tell him

I mean there is no depth

derailment

discomfort

.

Irish coffee

Is a story

.

I long for someone to dig

savor the uprooting

but they’re all shallow monotones

vapid purity

floating above the hells like angels

.

I feel it no matter how

softly I step or

how high I float

a cord from the bellybutton of darkness

.

one part whisky two parts drip

.

9.13.20

I trust the ones with birds in their ears

the ones who walk with their thoughts,

heads lifted towards the sky

.

A footstep is a language

and bird-eared people know how to

speak this language with poise

.

A contemplative toe touches earth

learning with slight pressure

and rhythmic momentum

.

carrying song in every step

synergy for sharing these moments

with feathered ones

.

invitations for birds

can be crafted of copper

hanging on wire, dangling from earlobes

.

invitations for birds

can be a pair of binoculars worn around the neck

when waking up to greet the morning

.

invitations for birds

can be little watering holes

placed with carefulness among gardens

.

most importantly,

invitations for birds

are a quiet love felt even in solitude

asking for an opportunity to listen

.

7.6.20

“Bird-eared”

Bob brings rainbows

.

Mountains ooze like honey

He touches sage the same way I do

Breathes it in like a memory

.

Tracing over textures

of the space we keep

a graceful pressing

.

He feels with a selectness

Gentle openings and trails of light

By his fingertips

.

He talks without speaking

And when he does speak

We are all flowers bending towards the sun

.

Time lapses like waves rolling

I sink into this holding

Love knows how to exhale

.

From warmth and dreams comes morning

.

6.29.20

“Bob”

I live in a house of birds

where I swallowed the sun

and buried my dreams

.

I was a watcher of storms

perched window side

set in chilly feet

.

A bather of beauty

has been the cloak

I am bored of yearning

.

Biting for gold 

against tender teeth

mouth soaked in pink

.

Spring feels like rebellion

a gentle uprising

carried forth in feathered songs

.

3.1.20 - 4.16.20

Your words are feathers

weightless and free

.

Your words are avalanches

burying me deep

.

I want to catch them 

when they roll off of your tongue

.

But your words are a river

I can’t hold in my hands

.

sometime.early 2019

after all this time

I still lie to myself

.

I will take these words back

because erasers are my favorite tool

.

rubbing away at provocations

I was once so-sure-of

.

manipulating the shapes in my mind

the trinity:

.

my denial

my hope

my faith

anointing myself over and over

.

baptizing my body

for a religion I don’t believe in

.

sometime.early 2019

I brought all the pieces of the ocean with me

They are here

Dried out on the shelf of my bedroom

It is a desert here

.

My father writes in all caps

I can sense the way that the cat here

knows, fears, and is in awe of my presence

I am powerful

.

The prayer plant that I insisted on calling

 A maranta

Is indeed commonly known as

A prayer plant

.

My stubbornness would allude me

Again and again and again

Like all the girls I’ve ever loved

I am aloof to what is in front of me

.

I’ve shut off feeling deeply

Transmuted it into deep thrusts

My capacity to love is beyond my own limitations

I do not trust the chemicals in my brain

.

To summon pain is to live outright

This all is nothing if we cannot feel

My fear of love is stronger

Than my fear of pain

.

Here, always here

I am my own demise

and,

my own sanction

.

4.3.2020

Soft patches

Fuzzy memories

Lace curtains

Selective holding

.

Bend to reach me

Fold to focus

Yellow lenses

Safe in dreaming

.

Yield to open

Sifting slowly

Tepid traveler

Testing feelings

.

A burn in the desert

For a river in the ocean

I am heat on fire

Amongst belly deep

Refreshing water

.

Bathe me once, twice,

Again until I’m vapor

Love me quiet like this

Pouring, Soaking, Cooling

.

1.23.20

Your ice sculpture is frozen solid

In perfect reflection of you

I watch out the window of the cafe

sipping coffee that steams

Mountain folk stop to take photos

Marveling in the precision

And the light refracting

from its facets

For a fleeting moment,

but you have caught them

Even on a morning like today

with air that bites hard on fingertips

I think about your eyes glimmering

and your hands working

you chiseling away in your shop

the imagining, the sketching

the dreaming, the carving

that has made you master of your craft

Of the three states of water,

I am absolute liquid

I don’t know how to harden into solid

My expertise is melting

My form has no edges

I trickle into understanding

Maybe this is why

we slipped from each other so easily

There wasn’t a temperature to hold us

both in our natural states

Now I am a spectator

and my vision will always be blurry

Because you are always

the sun glinting on the snow

Because I have put you in the same position

as your sculptures

On pedestal