Poetry Corner

Watching the radioactive waste of my grief 

What’s the half-life of siblings death? 

Went will this be safe for disposal? 

What’s the protocol for burning tears and a closed-up throat? 

My body molding into the leather

That's been tarnished and cracked over the years

This road will go on forever with me in the seat

Loving him was like a scarecrow loving a bonfire

The dancing light enchanting me to pull in close

The warmth seeping into my bones, and seeping a little further

The gentle heat turning sinister once I was too close

And me, a scarecrow, too close to notice my smoking shoes

Wishing on the wizard behind the smoky curtain to give me a brain 

My old skin still fits

The same tight seams rubbing my armpits

The same stretching around my belly I fought to make smaller

The same shame swallowed like a peach pit

The same fear that it will grow in my stomach if left untended

It’s all the same as last time

/

But last time I didn’t have a match 

To burn the trees growing up my throat

Last time I didn’t have shears 

To snip the branches peaking out my mouth

Last time I didn’t have the strength 

To push past the leaves and see a better future

It won’t be like last time

/

There will be no edges, but curves.

Large and old awoke. And then our singing

The dark we’ve only ever imagined now audible, 

Thrumming,

Black noise. What must be voices bob up,  then drop, like 

Metal shavings

And it rolls out: high, shrill and metallic 

The magic decibel, the whole building

Or a door opening onto the roiling infinity of space

I steal words

Hoarding them like a dragon building her trove

The divine sounds gracing my lips

And dripping from my pens 

Fingers clawed like an eagle over a keypad

Poised to snatch up the sentences 

The animal in me pauses 

To listen at closed doors and under cracked windows

For the words the wind carries 

A little thief waiting to devour and untended thought

Taking books filled with lives never lived

A fiction gracing reality in a burglars hand

Storing each crumpled, sweat stained page in my heart

It is my treasure, my words

Each stolen line from a song

Each taken quote from a person greater than myself 

Each snatched poem read and remembered while I write 

I have been a thief of every breathtaking line 

With no remorse I draw in the words like a fur coat

I burrow into them each night while I dream 

More words draw themselves over my heart until all I am is one big story

Made of stolen pieces of each thing that touched me hard enough to leave a mark

L. M.

L. M.

L. M. 

You’d be prettier if you smiled more

Razer teeth tight lips pulled tight 

A piranha smile 

Brutally pretty 

Poised for the eventual picture

A lady statue,

Emotionlessly hysterical 

The imaginary man in the keyhole watches

A voyeur of my intimate moments

  Performing

    to please him 

       in an empty room 

He claps

  to the sound of my tears

    A standing ovation to womanly pain

My heels beat the drums 

Of a woman's war

Fighting for my right to exist 

The knife of womanhood poised at my back

52 stab wounds from magazines, photos, makeup

Where am I?

I am waterside in France

Walking with Jean-Luc

The water makes a small lapping noise against the wharf

What am I feeling?

Holding his hand as the lanterns glint off the waves

My heart feels like water, pulling towards his moon

Tidally pulled to his warm arms

 What has happened?

It was only supposed to be dinner

Now we are here, walking hand in hand

Not a chaperone in sight

Where will I go from here?

Jean-Luc squeezes my hand

Tells me it’s getting late

We should go home, 

How do I tell him that by his side is my home?

________________________________

I take the last apple from the bowl and hold it, 

to know its weight. It is small. A hard bitter thing.

Sour apple plucked from an untended tree on 

An empty lot. I was once taught that good apples 

Come from trees you prune. Snipping away 

the new branches, and trimming leaves. 

It felt cruel to cut away at a tree for the sin of growing.

I bite the tiny apple, its starchy flesh a sour taste.

It reminds me, that wild things aren’t made for me.

I throw the apple away. The small bitter thing reminds me of myself

My heart is just like the apple, sour and small, discarded by you. 

You were my gardener, tending me.

Cutting my branches and leaves until I was shaped like something you wanted.

My apples big honey crisp tits, glowing red on my pale skin

I flowered and fruited from your hand

Dipped in caramel dreams, I was so damn sweet

Then you left me empty and alone

I went wild, growing how I wanted to

Suddenly my leaves choked back the parts you like so much

I didn't fruit the sweet large apples of desire

I am smaller now, sour, bitter, starchy

I'm not a vibrant store bought red

I am a wild mix of green and yellow

Bruised and eaten by bugs

I am myself again, not your cultivation

And I will never be subject to your teeth

My flesh isn't made for your bite

I am a wild apple tree, reaching For the sky

Hiding my love behind my leaves 

Dreams sweet bear my soul away

From long days to sweet nights 

Under the stars sweet sparkle and shine

And moons glow quiet

A dark solace of covers wrap soundly around

The gentleness of the night is disrupted

By a cacophony of noise

The euphoric sleep disrupted

By loud revelers without a care

The revelers are cloaked

In nights music of hidden desire 

And concealed actions

A juxtaposition of display and disguise

Alas, 

A tragic situation indeed,

My dreams must be dreamt another night