Biggun!
I dunno why people put disclaimers on their written in one day poems that say things like "this isn't done yet" because shit. I can't write a poem in a day! But anyway. Here are some drafts from today. I am putting two-ish because I think they go together but not quite yet. And I assure you, things will be cut out and reorganized and well. Hurrah.
21/30
1
today I want to shake the dust
of poetry off my skin. It makes me
sneeze. Makes me feel sleepy, like cats do,
or pollen in the fields
of grass.
today I want to watch wheat
and wind and not have words for
the way it dances. want to wake up
without a city I call home,
wake up wandering
with the hard imprint of sand
on my cheek and I’ll brush that off
too, just like I did the poetry
and the dust.
today, I brush off poetry so I can see the patterns
sand stitches on your body and I
won’t have to look for a story
there and I won’t have to find
anything besides beautiful.
like it is. like it will be. beautiful.
the heartbreaking kind. the kind
we keep trying to find sentences and formulas for when
really, we never got close enough to know
its perfect shape. it moves
too quickly, shines too brightly, fades
too fast. this is beautiful. all
of this sand, this dust, this poetry
all the things buried just
underneath.
today I want shake off the dust of
poetry. I want trapped words in
that bubble that sits on top of
my iris and I don’t want to let them out.
I want to sew my lips shut—watch the needle
pulling flesh, taste the coins that run
in my blood and not
tell
anyone
about it.
so if I wake up on the ocean
if I find myself in Miami I’ll watch the
sun as it moves backwards across geography
setting itself down on the wrong side of
my bed, and I will just let it lie there
cover it with sand like a blanket
turn off the lights
let it keep secrets.
2
I am going to travel. that’s how to shake
this dust. these bones. make the bones shatter, turn
to dust, grind the light behind my eyes and make
this burn turn to an itch make this lust
turn into wandering. and make this rain even
more temporary then when it was born. it
was born as a river and I like the sound of
sediment. I like to feel blind until the estuary
feel blind and taste the salt and remember the minerals
that made up this rock. keep. on. moving
cos when rivers dry up then sediment becomes
dust and bones broken are dust and I have dry
river beds stuck in my lungs and moonlit deserts to
swim in. but my heart has no bones
it is elastic it has seeds so
I buried it under an apple tree
when I was a kid and now I have
branches instead of arms and my heart
is one big knot. it is four rooms and four
walls and when the blood swishes in and out
of those swinging doors I guess I think about
my mother. about aprons and hot stoves. about
the things she hasn’t taught me yet cos I can’t stop
moving around. like how to make applesauce
out of the refuse of hearts. like how to make the
pie crust perfect. like how to stand up taller when the
man you love, the father of your children, walks through
one of those swinging doors into another chamber and
never comes back. how to ignore the burning traces
still moving through capillaries. how to keep your mouth
closed tight while learning how to love again. four rooms and
four walls and it pulses blood through my veins and I think of inheriting
these things. all the bad traits. I’m stubborn, like
you dad. always either right or done with the
conversation. and I’m a little magnetic too. but mom
I got your fear. I can’t get rid of the monsters
from the dark. don’t trust the ground when
it is solid beneath me and I keep writing
myself into failed destinies. I can hear you
in the blood in my veins. it sounds like water. sounds like
a record before the music starts playing. sounds
like wind in a wheat field. or the skirts my mother
never wore because it was the eighties and everyone
then wore jeans, wore jeans while she baked dinners
out of her dreams and I guess you just sort of wake up
old. wake up with chambers full and dust
collecting in the corners of the house you bought
cos you were supposed to. wake up and make sure your
heart is still an apple or a pie. cos crab apples are what become of
hearts that give up. mom, I am glad your heart
has not become that small sour fruit. I am glad your rooms
were never empty. I am glad you cradled all three children
in those chambers.
21/30
1
today I want to shake the dust
of poetry off my skin. It makes me
sneeze. Makes me feel sleepy, like cats do,
or pollen in the fields
of grass.
today I want to watch wheat
and wind and not have words for
the way it dances. want to wake up
without a city I call home,
wake up wandering
with the hard imprint of sand
on my cheek and I’ll brush that off
too, just like I did the poetry
and the dust.
today, I brush off poetry so I can see the patterns
sand stitches on your body and I
won’t have to look for a story
there and I won’t have to find
anything besides beautiful.
like it is. like it will be. beautiful.
the heartbreaking kind. the kind
we keep trying to find sentences and formulas for when
really, we never got close enough to know
its perfect shape. it moves
too quickly, shines too brightly, fades
too fast. this is beautiful. all
of this sand, this dust, this poetry
all the things buried just
underneath.
today I want shake off the dust of
poetry. I want trapped words in
that bubble that sits on top of
my iris and I don’t want to let them out.
I want to sew my lips shut—watch the needle
pulling flesh, taste the coins that run
in my blood and not
tell
anyone
about it.
so if I wake up on the ocean
if I find myself in Miami I’ll watch the
sun as it moves backwards across geography
setting itself down on the wrong side of
my bed, and I will just let it lie there
cover it with sand like a blanket
turn off the lights
let it keep secrets.
2
I am going to travel. that’s how to shake
this dust. these bones. make the bones shatter, turn
to dust, grind the light behind my eyes and make
this burn turn to an itch make this lust
turn into wandering. and make this rain even
more temporary then when it was born. it
was born as a river and I like the sound of
sediment. I like to feel blind until the estuary
feel blind and taste the salt and remember the minerals
that made up this rock. keep. on. moving
cos when rivers dry up then sediment becomes
dust and bones broken are dust and I have dry
river beds stuck in my lungs and moonlit deserts to
swim in. but my heart has no bones
it is elastic it has seeds so
I buried it under an apple tree
when I was a kid and now I have
branches instead of arms and my heart
is one big knot. it is four rooms and four
walls and when the blood swishes in and out
of those swinging doors I guess I think about
my mother. about aprons and hot stoves. about
the things she hasn’t taught me yet cos I can’t stop
moving around. like how to make applesauce
out of the refuse of hearts. like how to make the
pie crust perfect. like how to stand up taller when the
man you love, the father of your children, walks through
one of those swinging doors into another chamber and
never comes back. how to ignore the burning traces
still moving through capillaries. how to keep your mouth
closed tight while learning how to love again. four rooms and
four walls and it pulses blood through my veins and I think of inheriting
these things. all the bad traits. I’m stubborn, like
you dad. always either right or done with the
conversation. and I’m a little magnetic too. but mom
I got your fear. I can’t get rid of the monsters
from the dark. don’t trust the ground when
it is solid beneath me and I keep writing
myself into failed destinies. I can hear you
in the blood in my veins. it sounds like water. sounds like
a record before the music starts playing. sounds
like wind in a wheat field. or the skirts my mother
never wore because it was the eighties and everyone
then wore jeans, wore jeans while she baked dinners
out of her dreams and I guess you just sort of wake up
old. wake up with chambers full and dust
collecting in the corners of the house you bought
cos you were supposed to. wake up and make sure your
heart is still an apple or a pie. cos crab apples are what become of
hearts that give up. mom, I am glad your heart
has not become that small sour fruit. I am glad your rooms
were never empty. I am glad you cradled all three children
in those chambers.
the last stanza of 1. is wonderfuk
ReplyDeleteI am glad my heart is still a juicy ripe fruit, and the fear is just what all mothers have - for the safety and well being of their kids. You should not own that fear - let it go and be free!
ReplyDelete