Flourishing | poem

At night, the jaw disconnects from my skull
And flies out to join bats in the trees.
(I wonder if you’d like me more as a skeleton, segmented and
Without scent or sense or perspective or all this goddamn hair.)
I think you despise the pink in my cheeks, so
I’ll slice them from my face and trade cypress for pine.
I know you prefer the flourishing hips of an aspen, so
I’ll wrench the stem out from under me and sell it to the trees.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Sleepy Ramblings Regarding Strange Habits of Mine

I had this realization recently that I've been walking through life on my tiptoes. Literally and figuratively. I thought it was only something I did when I was little, something that disappeared when I got older. But that didn't seem to be the case. Along with using an incredibly passive voice quite frequently ( ha ha ), I continued tip-toeing around the house and it completely escaped my notice until my mom pointed it out to me. Then it began bothering me. I began noticing other strange habits of mine... For instance: biting my lips till they're rather raw, bouncing my feet while sitting, chewing my nails in my sleep ( though that usually only happens when I'm super stressed )... There's probably more. And they annoy me to no avail. I made a plan recently ( or perhaps a feeble attempt ) to stop some/all of these ridiculous habits. Especially the tip toe thing. I'm going to start walking heel-toe again. And then I thought: you know what? I nee
Read more

Domenica | a poem

  Venice is paradise in summer: Lovers lay in gondolas under a lemon sun, sprawling on top of embroidered pillows and celestial dreams. Stress undresses itself on the boardwalk, leaving nothing but relaxed Venetians, who know better than to mask nature’s path. Domenica Rosa, you were there once, weren’t you? As a child, perhaps, exploring the damp stones with your violet eyes and young bones. And were you delighted? Or perhaps, like me, you kept your soul at home, safe and sound from wet ground and deep inside a catacomb carved by kitchen knives. Even so, Domenica, dear grandmother goddess of stars, stripes and pizzelles, listen to me. Hear my voice and embrace me again, for I must learn how to be as you once were: A mother weathered well for loving, a lover lost but never abandoned, a woman like Auntie Mame, with a tasteful tongue for storytelling, wrapped in nostalgia.
Read more

Socks | poem

For our birthdays, we exchanged socks like promises: I’ll protect you if you protect me . But we hated confinement, so often, we shed our socks and raced through hallways, puddles, rivers — more than common ground. We broke free of simplicity—spilled over walls like nail polish, screamed like firing guns, and ate our fill of rainclouds. For your birthday, I wear your socks, slip, fall, and think: I’ll get up for you if you get up for me.
Read more