Posts
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Medicine
The wood is lush and dappled with light,
the first April flowers poking out of the ground, snow
melting under my bare feet.
The ache of you digs into my chest like a sharpened blade,
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An audition
when she sang, she sang a rhapsody
tender words that arced across the room on golden strings
like her un-brushed curls that flew in the wind
from the open window behind her.
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the last day of march
Mud mingling with snow mingling with dirt,
the remnants of red nail polish from
Valentine's Day,
how has it lasted so long?
The sun a hot fiery ball over the cloud-speckled horizon,
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Good news
I don't want the cold hallways,
their chill seeping underneath
my thin regulation gown and settling in my bones.
I don't want the nurses,
with their tight, sympathetic smiles
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Us
I cling to the rollicking waves of our tumultuous friendship before they slip from my grasp, white-knuckled fingers and tangled legs praying not to be tossed astray by the unforgiving current.
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The back of the bus
They sit in the back of the bus,
the shimmer of secrecy ignited in their eyes,
her head in his lap, his hands in her hair,
her lips twisted in that sickening smile. My neck aches
from looking behind me, and my
Loves
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She sat on a bench in the park
She sat on a bench in the park when I passed her and I said
Who are you waiting for and she said
He’ll come
He’ll come and I left and I came back and she was still there
He’ll come
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The Words Aren't What I Want
My eyelids stay together
every blink
a little longer than usual wishing
I were still asleep
I don't remember not sleeping
last night
but I guess
that's just the way it is
first block
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Monet's "Woman with a Parasol - Madame Monet and Her Son"
The swirling, hazy perspective on a long summer's day. The feeling as if time has halted. Expansive blue sky dotted with lazy clouds, watched from patches of warm, tickling grass. The swish of clothing, movement.
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some abstract fruit
Juice tastes like your spit on my lips
It overflows, slides down the point of my chin--
I can see the dirt, the darker spots
It smells like my backyard, like orange blossoms in the spring time
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yom kippur
the world was gray and cold when i rolled out of bed,
the first frost of the season just barely
kissing the ground. i tied the morning
into shoelace knots and hugged forgiveness to my chest.
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Hey, Jess(i)e!
I am afraid.
It is a pale thing,
for a dark body.
There are little particles
of dried skin on my
elbows and hips and knees
that are so white
he could only ever know