Thursday, January 31, 2013

If you are going to call yourself a writer - a reminder to myself

if you are going to dare call your self a writer
an artist
a woman who pulls words from the vein of body
then words better come
better pray
it rains you some
that they crash down
in thunder
strike the ground
hot enough to turn the crumbling earth
into iridescent foundation
something solid
for life to be held
even the smallest of it

if you gonna call yourself a writer
better not wait for writing to happen
better happen yourself into writing
better force yourself awake
each evening
force the finding of words
better tie cords into your edges of your wrist
better pull til worst fall free
better take care as they tumble
down before your eyes
down from your blood
better pay close attention
better not expect any pay or attention
aint gon get any
better keep on that writing
better keep on that focus
better keep on
better write
write, write
if you are gonna call yourself a writer
you better

Wednesday, January 9, 2013

What missing you means

i leave the bathroom door unlocked when i shower
take my time
wash my hair
stop at three times
i wait
wondering if waiting will bring your return

i curl my body into the corner of my bed
press my skin agaisnt the cold of the wall
let the only heat come from my breath bouncing off my pillow
i let my body remember the space you occupied when you were here
refuse to let it dissipate

i eat lots of ice cream
and cry into my pillow
play the weepies and sing along until
my sobs drown out any sound resembling music

i am overly dramatic
write metaphors to compare my longing for you to some kind of serious trauma
it is not
we are perfectly safe in this distance
and one of us always returns
we will be okay

but it doesnt mean i do not find myself empty
having forgotten how to survive alone
it doesnt mean i will lock my bathroom door
anytime soon
or that i will take advantage of a full empty bed
there is no trauma
but i will miss you terribly
like there is
for every minute
of every day
until you return
to my arms
and ill show you
how iʻve saved your space

Sunday, January 6, 2013

I avoid this city

i avoid this city
tred lightly on the cracks of its concrete
not wanting to leave a mark
not wanting to be remembered
to give any part of myself away
i have worked far to hard for every inch of this body
i shake myself hoping not to carry the dust of this shattering glass ceiling home

i desire very little of it all
spend so much of my time
unwilling in the face of change
maybe growth too
definitely of anything resembling service to this city
i am a caged and hardened skin of a woman

and iʻve seen what a place this loud and fast can do
seen the way it has warped the bodies and minds of my own people
how they are often made stronger and better for it
how being stronger to them
means forgetting and failing to return
i am not interested in that kind of strength
i did not come here to be changed
i do not intend to become desired enough that i am asked to stay
i did not affix my name to that kind of contract

i am selfish in my pursuit
coming only to take
and observe
and i find it hard to be ashamed
after so many years
of trying to make the tracks of foreign interest disappear from the sands i call home
i find it so hard to feel selfish
when looking to the past for an excuse my for action
i find it so hard, sometimes
and im glad
because anything easier might
encourage me to stay

Kin of Cloud

She will not have seen my body burned
Fire trusted onto every inch of melting skin
How my Fingertips slipped like salty sweat to the floor
Parts of me continuing to burst
The heat of blood expanding through newly shrunk and smoked body
Shriveled and condensed over again
She will not see me watching
Only imagine
Someone sky like
Kin of cloud
Gazing down at her hands clasped

I will watch her hardened woman
Pew like
altar of a body
Overlying her self in water falling through

She will not see me watching
Admire the way her body conforms to mourning
As if in specialty
How I will worry it will remember this contortion in muscle
Maybe she might find herself alone in what was once our bed
Erect and statue like again
giving her water to the gods in offering
eyes not knowing how to shut
Afraid of the fire my body found behind the darkness

she will not see me watching
from behind my own eyes
Photographed and still
how even beyond the skin and bones left
and casketed
there is a contorting game I will play
to fit myself
into every photograph that remains
to watch her
to pray in whatever light that may remain

how my body will be folded and harden too
I will have no water left to offer
But try
For her
To leave some sort of physical sign that I haven’t quite left
That she should not remove the trinkets and parts of my memory that have found a miracle way to stay
I try to tell her that I am here
By using my photograph stare
try dive into her body
And allow her hands to open
Eyes to close
Try to show her there are many ways to mourn
Not all ending in the drain
Of all that you are left

After everyone else who had loved me is gone
She will stay
Continue the pouring out
And I will dream of a way
To shatter this photograph
And join her
My arms stretched around her body
Spine erect
Alter like
Stiff as a pew
But as soft as our morning prayers
I will imagine my body
Returning everything shes offered
Wrapped around her skin
Protecting her
From the fire