Dec 25
Icestorm's picture

Generation Broken Mirror

how do we cope with       seven years of bad luck,
sweating summer away, treating youth
like bittersweet apricot, unripe/or rotting,
when winter brings
our future’s eroded footprints
as clearly as if they were stamped      in fresh fallen snow?
    we are not ourselves: ruining things we love
    by becoming them.
making competitions of unblooming.     I love me,
    I love me not. love me,
love the parallel of armor & amour.
petals pirouetting/
metallic lace lining pistil/, pistol.
there is pollen under my/your eyes
& i/you are (am) allergic.
Dec 25
Icestorm's picture

Prayer of Inheritance

dear God, this is a hymn; I sing it with my throat still fresh. dear God, this is a prayer; I recite it
with my head bowed and the arrow nocked. irony coalesces in the strangest
of places, Father, this I am learning from the lack of arks in these polished oak arches.

when I was seven, knit stockings and Velcro-ed Mary Janes, they said God was always with me. childhood
misconception heard I would never escape. that when I made a steeple with my chubby fingers for Children’s Moment prayer, the doors of my thumbs locked. God, You were trapped between my palms, and I still haven’t found a key.

faith is so alluring we forget angels haunt too. though I used to think You played the organ, its sweet soliloquy
explainable only by divine omniscience, the notes were ominous. something so grand deserves presentability, deserves
Dec 25
Icestorm's picture


i. dremel uvula
we are girls. to hope is to expect. to revert back
to sticky hands, to beg between tantrum sobs
for lullabies. we are girls, we polish
our sentiments (with sandpaper tongues)
down to shining minimums
before bending at the waist to spit them
onto the kitchen table, beside the clay vase
of cut carnations. we girls wipe away excess saliva, knowing
nothing tastes as cloying as an apology. we girls dance
to the clatter of amethyst
on expectant dinner plate. to the fine china shards
we tape to brick walls. girls, girls
almost as demanding as
the word pretty.

ii. gardeneress
the gardeneress twists submission from silence
like warm bathwater from a washcloth
& hangs them both up to dry. looking at bookshelves
the same way she yanked out her son's teeth
in the dull living room bulblight. he watches as she
Nov 29
Icestorm's picture

Point Off View

we feel we are broken: ‘you, kissing temples.
    i, stuck in church.’
    but broken implies a previous wholeness,
so we settle for fragmented,    so we are all a little bit each other.
    trading pieces: Sicilian defense and we’re all playing white. 
our monologues sink to soloquities    as our thoughts filter in third person limited. 
stained glass kaleidoscope: a selfish mosaic of rejected monasticism.
    oh, what we wouldn’t give for Gabriel.
Nov 08
Icestorm's picture


Dripping with gasoline,
we chase unlit matches

fancying ourselves
a revolution to lead.

Bored of bliss, we band-aid
papercuts caused by the Constitution.

We pick sides &
romanticize blind loyalty:

a dangerous religion
when justice is tailored for Television.
Mar 12
Icestorm's picture

You know what it's about.

Dry knuckles, the aggressive scent of Clorox;
empty soap dispensers,
Row Row Row Your Boat sung over the loudspeaker for the first time since kindergarten. 

It’s not about personal preference,
I counter “your generation isn’t even affected by it” with,
it's about social responsibility.

Frequent absences, checking email;
$8 plane tickets to Italy are worth it, right?

Oh, ok, I get it,
a girl snarks in response to “you young people are putting others at risk with your recklessness,"
it’s like reverse climate change.
Feb 21
Icestorm's picture

a plethora of questions & why i am the silence following them

“why do i have to make my bed every morning, again? it’s pointless, i just mess it up again at night.”

“why would you breathe if you’re just gonna die anyway?”

why do i breathe? ok. i breathe because living is something i want to do. so oxygen can sweep through my lungs and into my bloodstream into my heart into cells of tissue and organs, to carry my muscles onto the next mile. because that oxygen is there for more than allowing for blood to leak out of self made wounds. i breathe because there were fireflies in ancient greece and the gap between polaris and betelgeuse is exactly the size of my flashlight because i made it that way. for monarch wings and wax wings and airplane wings. because i still need to prove to myself the sun rises in italy, because there are books i need to read, because i’m going to hear my new favorite song tomorrow, and because even tomorrow, i’ll have today. i breathe because life is a choice, and i choose to breathe.
Feb 21
Icestorm's picture

faithfully unfaithful

church is the most consistent variable in my life. three houses and fifteen years
it took me to realize. in fifteen years i’ve learned who killed abel but not why i should see god in blooming daffodils.

is home a steeple? i do love stained glass sunlight & silver cups, but. i used to believe god played the organ, and there are decade-old drawings fingered into velvet pews half a country away, but.

but even after seven hundred eighty-nine sundays, why must i still chew the inside of my cheeks, on longer possessing the patience to love, hate, and pray on command, and lacking the talent to lie?

what is a home if you still question its foundation?

is home predisposed, or chosen?


what is a home if you don’t question its foundation?

i’ve been forgetting to count myself in groups lately. i hope god doesn’t have the same tendency.