Poetry

I.

a crown filled with cement

that hurts, its corked

sour pinot grigio

metal in my mouth

when do you want dinner?

she asks knowing i’m not hungry

forcing a plate to my lips

as she whistles away an unfamiliar tune

II.

what connects us

is looking through the barrel

a silver string

the keys

here, take this

hand, arm

my stomach

ribs expanding then tightness

a stream of air through empty holes

learn from me 

water it down with ice cubes

III.

the ground stepped on is sharp

a broken half 

step 

deeper vibrations 

i grow like bamboo 

i try to out run 

Barefoot

she reaches out

listen,

teach me to breathe

Oh, Rabbit, with your fur so purely white,

And your throat slit open with crimson, 

Held together by measly strips of velcro,

When I first saw you all those years ago,

Being used for the stage I loved looking at, 

Those black beady eyes staring in two 

Directions and holding your soft small body

Like a baby and petting you like you are real,

With your bright ribbon acting as blood.

And I was tasked with rolling the fabric 

After each performance just so the actor can

“Slice” at the coat again with a dull blade. 

Oh, poor Prop Rabbit, I’m sorry for taking 

You away from home due to my own anger, 

And putting you back when I thought they 

Were going to use you again and for stealing

You again when they changed their mind.

I like to use you as a physical memory 

Of a time of naivety and “better times.”

I show you off to others who never saw you 

In your prime in the comfort of my bedroom.

And now, with your right ear snapped off

From being in my backpack for too long,

Glaring at me from the shelf in which you 

Lay, save me from this theatrical turmoil! 

Save me with your beady eyes and ribbon!

Remind me why I even do this theatre thing

In the first place and explain why I put myself 

Through it all. Save me, even if you’re lost too.

surface 

the body heaved loud

come on in the water’s warm

stay here, catch your breath 

tangle

she brushes her hair

slowly and softly until

she just cuts the knot

discolor 

when his face was beat

bloody red with fists now bruised,

all he did was grin

weight(less)

let's go back in time–

i would do it all again

to put wings on lead

bloom

tell me about when

we picked flowers in the snow

before i forget

Wind

All the memories of people not in my life anymore

Are like dust in the wind.

Floating, flying quickly when the wind picks up 

Blowing, 

tiny, 

forgettable 

specs 

far away

Leaving me isolated, alone, 

by myself.

But sometimes and suddenly the dust gets into my eyes

Making me wipe them until they fill the brim with tears

I then remember the laughs, the jokes, the sleepovers, the calls, 

the joys, 

the fights 

And it makes me miss them

But then the wind picks up again

And they’re gone

She found the guitar in the back of my closet,

the one that I once only had out for you to play–

to lull me to sleep.

And I would hum a lullaby 

watching your delicate hands float across the strings 

while you mind numbingly strum along.

And I would think,

How lucky am I to have him?

But now the out-of-tune relic in her hands 

shows my luck had run dry.