i think the end of the world would be okay with you hairstill and arms waving wrapped in clothes and hands and the music as it fades out and more fades in our hands interlace in air anchored by elbows and someone threw the stars out into the sky like spit all the dandruff sprinkled over all we know i don’t know how it would end i don’t know how the stars would disappear or if it would be us that went first stepping off the edge like waiting for a stair that isn’t there but i think i would lie still arms full of you mouth numb to all i don’t want to hear
FRUIT AT THE RODINgrowing up, i ate kiwis like apples. my mom would cut them into slices but when she wasn’t around i chomped down on them whole to let sour juices fall down my chin this afternoon i am eating delicate slices from whole foods i can see there are little veins connecting the seeds of the kiwi to its core i never noticed this before i learned recently raspberries are roses or part of the family, at least and them and strawberries aren’t berries at all i heard it’s because their seeds are on the outside or something, maybe something anyway what i meant to say is by the end of winter i forget how peaches are my favorite fruit. not-quite-ripe kiwis are somehow easier to find and i tend to cling to what’s close IN THE GRASSwith silk ribbons draped from your neck like ballet shoes sitting in the sunlight noise, you are rich, almost to the point of sweetness troubles drawn out slowly from under your skin. my toes are covered in lemon juice & i have river water on my hands that won’t wash off i ask you to come stretch my bones today, i am trying to find the heavens. i can see remnants of god in the angels of your face, yes the angels, playing lightly on your cheekbones i watch melodies form & think of your fingertips on my palms & of a girl who read them once. a single deep, solid line to represent love, i was told my influence turns weak halfway through my life yet still, my love remains; a crevice making its way through my fingers like a river. “here.” you extend your arms towards me & it is my choice to grab hold
the water doesn’t lap, it rocks, quakes, quivers has the freedom to feel the weight of itself we all rest somewhere, in a gradient of density i don’t sink, i float on stone a piling of mountains too light to subside and must be rendered old by other means there is no mountain of a sandbar that can grant eyes to the other side of the atlantic guarded by a curvature that works only in aggregate punctured by dolphin fins and boat sails outlined by sunsets and sunrises clouds cresting over waves the water doesn’t lap, it rocks, quakes, quivers has the freedom to feel the weight of itself we all rest somewhere, in a gradient of density the other side of the atlantic doesn’t exist or, if it does, exists a galaxy away in time only it’s ghost bridges the distance, carried inside me
THE PREACHER“Blazing fires,” yelled the Preacher. “Blazing fires will purify you! Just go on– walk through them a sinner and exit a saint!” We smiled and we clapped. The next day, we all lit our homes on fire and strode through our front doors into the flames. Oh, how it hurt! How it burned– how we melted! We all rolled on the ground, writhing and screaming. The Preacher tore off his face and his bloody skull laughed at us from our front yards. THE HOSPITAL ROOMThe Hand of God reaches down into my shadowy inferno and yanks me out like an elevator going up, up, up. I am a prophet and no prophets need eyes. We see the darkness and walk through heavenly fire. So, I blindfold myself with white bandages. A black serpent has curled up inside my head. I feel it inhaling my clean air then exhaling its own polluted smoke into my lungs. On a Friday, I tried to gouge out my eyes so it could escape from my skull. Despite all the blood, it still hasn’t moved. As a gift for my sacrifice, the Hand of God touched my blackened eyes and taught me how to see like angels do. I awoke on a Sunday in a white room dressed in a white robe.
i sniff at every room i enter, expecting blood everywhere. starting from between my thighs onto the wall. this is a healthy habit. i check the stove a couple of times for a gas leak. deaths should be as deliberate as the skeleton of your body on my bed. could say there’s some history there. in my mind, a trail of catpiss. in my mind, the fire dies out as I wait. last night, baba played begum akhtar. again and again; that woman who yearned to die, that woman who confided in strange men in strange places. her strappy voice cut through my veins letting open a river. the air was salt. only so much colour i could scrape off the nails. my eyes swivel to the old winkowl and pause, lids heavy with secrets. this is not the night I die. when the dreams come, i welcome it. despite the crushing feeling of inadequate reality, after. when I leave this space, i will leave no gaping hole. seventeen times I woke up last night, seventeen times I missed a train. there was little to take off, but the nails fought back. the colours faded not enough. a crochet of blood later, we ate at each other. disciplined the storms in our chests. nudged calves into creases. chased the crest and then the fall, so soon, too soon. so less, too less. if there is a noose, i don’t die today. if there is a noose. such a shame the patch outlived the planter. ‘don’t tell my father i have died.’
ACT 1 I’m standing in front of your mom, fingers Twitching at her sides, blindly grasping at your Silhouette Stamped onto a silver chain, Glistening obnoxiously on a hollowed chest // empty // stained // suffocated She isn’t fixable. ACT 2 Collar bones protrude as she bends forward Committing herself wholly to eating a slice of Cake. (She’s been put back together by a 3 year old | projects her anger into nurturing | care- taking But he doesn’t understand. And maybe deep down she hates him for not Missing you More.) ACT 3 She’s comfortable being worse. She’s comfortable not eating | leading support groups But what am I to say? : if skipping meals and teaching Orphaned parents the task of essential deception is her way of honoring you, fine. She isn’t fixable. But you could have been. ACT 4 I’m expecting another phone call. Or a Facebook upload : a sunflower tramp stamp. Everyone grieves in their own way But please God, Let it be the tattoo.
hot piece more meat spit up spill out new sun still dark slick skin red rum bed tricks soft bones fist talk stale ghost ✱✱✱
i am an impatient narcissist a kid in line for the ferris wheel yanking on your nice coat asking why lines take so long whining about my starvation, it has been a full three hours since i ate up some of that good validation i count my past lives on my fingers and then i lick the funnel cake sugar off my fingers i want to achieve a chill level of drunk so i can explain myself to you and not throw up in your lap saying: ‘i am a kid at the top of this fucking wheel of mediocrity, just trying to remember what fun is’ i’m sorry i am asking a lot of you tugging on your nice coat until it stretches and i wrap myself in the fabric ✱✱✱
CADIZWhat did you bury here, What did you leave so deep in the ground That dirt tattooed under your fingernails? It wasn't a perfect funeral, Nor a funeral at all. You simply threw it under the eucalyptus leaves and hoped it would sleep in peace. You carved into the tree with your teeth. You carved: Don't come back. What made you feel so much has left, Has become decrepit in old age, Has longed to be back just as much as you. Eucalyptus leaves cover that place, Long and bony. You want to throw gravel and dance in it. You want to swim. You want to walk through fruited flowers and be happy. But you can't. You can't. Temptation tugs at your years, Begging to be fed. You're begging too, tears pulled out of the well you dug, Each droplet a letter of "I miss you." You let it be robbed. You let it be destroyed. What made you leave it so cleanly? You let it be desecrated from the inside. You are leaving it still. You see your family in need but there isn't a shovel in sight. Soft and wet, dark coffee colored soil. You could dig forever. You should dig forever. For all the time you buried alive, A little self-flagellation wouldn't hurt, The dirt against your back like a cold cold rein. If somebody died here, speak. The mourning rains dig plenty deep, Dig plenty well. A single daughter you were, Curled inside the womb of roots Sinking slowly as you cried. Like a babe, you clutched to your chest One red tile One pebble And a bouquet of eucalyptus leaves. The best way to grieve is to live with it Live in it Die in it if you must. Bury your soul until it can walk again. As a second birth, a birth in reverse, You can and you will be able to breathe. Be not afraid of the soil that still clings. Be not afraid of your home. VIGNETTESShe pulls out her ponytail and shakes, Releasing the scent of her shampoo into the air. For a moment, she looks like a dandelion bustling in the wind Until her mop settles into waves down her neck. She puts her hands above her head in sleep, And suddenly she is stuck in Greek myth. Either she raises her arms to avoid another tragedy, Or lifts the world on her fingertips. Sleep, my titan child. The world will wait for your hands. She blushes against the crush of bodies, Rosy to a clumsy touch. For an eternity of a moment, She imagines falling toward heaven, Upside down in her own head. She melts on a hearth, on a memory, on imaginary fire. Her fingers, so delicate, slip into the clouds. Her body, so protected before, lingers in the crush of bodies. She breathes. She comments that this place must be heaven. A cool summer night, cloudy, Streetlights shining dreamlike over the surface of the earth- Something is suspended for a while by telephone wires. Her heartbeat heavy and spasmodic, but not labored, Feeling like a gulp of ice water. She repeats the invocation that this place must be heaven. Hypnotizing static buzzes overhead, stars further up, Funneling into her glassy eyes. I can believe that. In these moments she feels outside herself, Watching the part of her that longs to be beautiful. She coaxes the gentle, bright magic out of its cavern piece by piece. ✱✱✱
Beached on my tempur-pedic foam, feet balance Pinot. I shut the window blinds, the distant lights of Bloor Street. This summer, I will tan through osmosis. In an old pair of shorts I found a transfer of the 509 streetcar- when I took those two dollar vacations to see you. We circled downtown and Lakeshore, you butchering lines from “Manhattan”. Because of you I prefer Diane Keaton to Muriel Hemingway. You know all the dogs in my neighbourhood by name; Sadie, Zelda, Zoe, and George. They don’t wag their tails when I jog by, sensing your ghost running beside me. I count the minutes until the end of August, hands clutched on the mattress raft. Telling my tongue vanilla tastes like sand and looks just like suntan lotion. ✱✱✱
|
Archives
March 2020
Categories
All
|