When, in The
morning, your eyes appear as an Apparition
above my bed, I am not afraid. I do not think Of
your hands or the weight These
thoughts hold. Faces
do not have to be our defining feature. In
spring once, you told me The
sound of my voice brought a Crowd:
you threw Petals
onto the pavement, On
the cold, round earth and A
broken old lady with a trail of Wet
tears knelt to pick the Black
off her shoe, next to a fallen, blooming Bough. 

 

Last summer I spilled coffee on my favorite pair of jeans
so I cut a hole the shape of a star
and now only wear them to bed.

Often I wake in the morning to the sound
of a foghorn.
I am neither near an ocean or dreaming.

Later I crave red currents and a sunset. 
I have neither. I eat a popsicle
in the tub and hope it helps. 

Sometimes I think I see her hands
on my windowpane before I close the shade.
I suffocate more than usual with cotton
stuffed up my mouth.
I breathe like I'm running just to witness
my own sweat.

My little sister buries a plum in the garden
and tells me to wait.
"Just you see," she says, "next year we'll be eating purple orbs."
I throw my head back and gaze at the sky.
"Maybe" I whisper at her receding back.
She is so unlike a plum.
I wonder why she wants them. 

The soil in the bathroom sink 
smothers the water
and I don't turn off the faucet.

I want the whole house to fill 
with the emptiness of an ocean.
I want the whole house to smell my hurt. 
I want the whole house to disappear into the cavern of my ear. 

The front door cracks open,
trailing her feet and the music 
and the splinter
she gets from dancing on rough asphalt at two am. 

I couldn't let the twenty-four sprouts that were supposed
to be a science experiment die. 
I couldn't forget the dream I had when my birds got free.
They split the sky with their talons. The moment I saw them I knew they were gone. 

I forget how to write when I cry.
I forget how to close my eyes and see her face
when the boys in the house next door laugh so hard their fingernails break.
I forget where my hands go when I am swallowing the oppressive face of the moon. 
I stay up at night

 

These are the final four podcasts in the series of six that I created for an independent research project at school. 
Episode 3 is called 'Searching for the Sites'
Episode 4 is called 'Digging for Contacts' 
Episode 5 is called ' Odd Coincidences'
and Episode 6 is called 'Conclusions' 


You can access the two previous episodes by clicking on the titles below:
Episode 1 'The Secret Safe'
Episode 2 'Souvenir Medallion' 

Let me live forever in those evenings filled with sticky heat
and your hands, fumbling for the doorknob. 

I’ve forgotten how to run.
You refused to give up on rain
and the frigid creek by the road. 

I don’t remember
how many stars we caught in jars,
but I know we released every one. 

I don’t remember
how many times I felt like spinning and spinning
under the moon that opened like a wound. 

September nights taste of mangoes. 
They land thick and sweet in my mouth 
and get caught between my teeth.

I wanted to sit out on your porch
and gnaw on the night’s pit. I never
wanted to sleep again. 

I didn’t mean to lose you
long enough to move on. 

 

 

concept: the highway gurgles and the horizon looks like a city
that’s been flipped on its back and tattooed on someone’s empty hand. 
we roll down the car windows and let our hair fly out. 
the storm fills our heads and we
open and open our mouths, like dying fish, trying to get a taste of the
sky. 

concept: we are becoming misplaced in our fabricated freedom.
i tell you how the street corner glows when the sun rises and you tell me
we are too stubborn to forget the dark in our eyes.
the asphalt stretches, the light grows nearer.
both threaten to swallow you too soon.
i ask, is it me or the leaving that makes you hurt?
you pull clouds over your eyes and look the other way. 
later, i find a torn notebook by your bed. 
me, it says. me. 
I wonder how much sleep you got last night, 
how many years it took for you to spit that up.