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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."
12.30.2012
Origin Stories
7.05.2012
The Haircut
5.29.2012
on being a feminist
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.
strange bandaged creatures,
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.
4.20.2012
The Opening
Because we have seen both justice and injustice,
we know the difference between them in our bodies.
And when we could not find justice,
we knew out by its absence.
We always knew.
And so we use our bodies,
our sadnesses,
as filters for each other
from the things we cannot bear.
When we speak,
I speak softly
for all the voices that have trampled me,
standing on top of me just to be heard.
I speak softly for all the voices I have trampled.
I speak as if my words
are open hands
or open books,
as if they could hear you
and resound in you,
like the guitar hollowed in your hands,
like my skin,
flickering
under your breath.
I am a moth with you,
a small, strong aliveness.
I flutter, I creak
--open
2.03.2012
the unknown place
i ask the poem boiling inside me,
a blossom,
a tea,
gnarled and warm.
i will go down to the river
to lay, in place,
my love poem,
alongside all the others.
every person
is alloted 20 love poems in their life,
20 places at the river.
not so neat, they sprout and gape
open
sometimes,
offer flowering hands,
up to the stars,
dirty and scarred.
in an open space, my own,
i will kneel and my press my mouth into the earth
to make the shape of her.
i love the ritual of it.
when i am done, the clay there will smell of her,
translucent like her skin.
poem, you were born
here,
a wet ember buried in my blood.
poem, you came of age inside my body.
poem, you left me,
left my mouth
when the first eyes knew me--
knew that i was not a girl.
poem, you cut my hair along your blade
and gave me my exhaustion.
but now that i have found the words for you, i lay you down to rest here,
in the river mud,
breathing deeply,
grateful i have 13 left to go.