- April 2004
- May 2004
- June 2004
- July 2004
- October 2004
- November 2004
- January 2005
- February 2005
- March 2005
- April 2005
- May 2005
- June 2005
- July 2005
- September 2005
- January 2006
- May 2006
- July 2006
- December 2006
- May 2007
- June 2007
- July 2007
- August 2007
- November 2007
- December 2007
- August 2008
- March 2009
- July 2009
- November 2009
- July 2010
- September 2010
- October 2010
- February 2011
- April 2011
- May 2011
- November 2011
- December 2011
- January 2012
- February 2012
- April 2012
- May 2012
- July 2012
- December 2012
archives
blogs i dig
archives
blogs i dig
"i don't think this next poem needs any introduction-- it's best to let the words speak for themselves"- Billy Collins, in his poem, "The Introduction."
5.29.2012
on being a feminist
we pass our nightmares around
like potluck stews
like bell hooks books
--because they are our education,
our nourishment
--because they leave us hungry
for new worlds,
and that is a hunger
worth feeding,
--because this world
has nightmares to feed us,
hanging from the trees,
like fruit
the color of the night sky,
like fruit the shape of faces.
new lover, monday:
i said stop, and you kept going,
and i said i had to leave, and you kept going,
and i said "you have really got to respect my fucking boundaries,"
and i slipped out from under your body,
and out the door,
grateful to have a voice,
and to be numb and strong,
carrying my still-sleeping nightmares over my shoulder,
the air still buzzing with survival
i will care for my nightmares later,
but now
i imagine them
outgrowing us,
too big for our human arms,
and imperfect genders,
winged and dangerous,
wild songs of hope.
like potluck stews
like bell hooks books
--because they are our education,
our nourishment
--because they leave us hungry
for new worlds,
and that is a hunger
worth feeding,
--because this world
has nightmares to feed us,
hanging from the trees,
like fruit
the color of the night sky,
like fruit the shape of faces.
the stories are tired--
"i said no and he kept going"--
we cradle them in our arms,
strange bandaged creatures,
strange bandaged creatures,
we somehow try to heal,
as we fight for our survival.
[old lover, sunday:
you took in my nightmares
you held my body gently, like a story worth mending.
but because you do not carry ghosts in bundles,
you could not understand my sadness
and so, like stupid pop song refrains, you left without saying goodbye.
still, i have the dream where we fuck each other into the bodies we were meant to have
spinning like disney transformations
when i am inside you:
you become girl
and i become something apart, between,
something invisible to those who would hurt me.
i said stop, and you kept going,
and i said i had to leave, and you kept going,
and i said "you have really got to respect my fucking boundaries,"
and i slipped out from under your body,
and out the door,
grateful to have a voice,
and to be numb and strong,
carrying my still-sleeping nightmares over my shoulder,
the air still buzzing with survival
i will care for my nightmares later,
but now
i imagine them
outgrowing us,
too big for our human arms,
and imperfect genders,
winged and dangerous,
wild songs of hope.