Feb 19

ache as kind

a bowl of dust is but a sore lip to you.
if all was weighted by the touch of your fork,
i wouldn’t have a breath, i’d be ice deep in it.

how softly do you walk up the stairs?
is your step a body or a train,
am i a wrist or a woman

(or a current)
is your ache as kind as mine

 
Feb 19

grapes in threes

Dec 16

to the tree outside my window

i am a girl made of skin. are you a tree, or a fennel seed on my tongue? you’re so small.

sometimes i want to be weak more than i want to be listened to;
i think it’s just grief. (all you know is a driveway)

do you think of me? when i stand outside and look through your thumbs, 
i’m sipping tea. chamomile, a silhouette of you.

i wish you could hold my breath because it’s steeping now. 
i’m not like you, i carry my body. yours is but a scent of ice. 

(how cold you must be)
 
Dec 13

on days like these


on days like these, we hold tea between our teeth.
ask to be calmed by some warm, hopeless skin
like a thin line of chai against porcelain.

(milk on your lips, i am waiting)

an acquired feel, winter has;
and sixteen years of ice i've swallowed. 

sometimes, i want you to spell out a syllable in my voice.
words seem so much kinder when they drip from your tongue.

if i could have even a bowl of your mistakes, i’d place them on the kitchen counter beside a warm plate of figs,
how much i would like to trade errors because yours, at least, make a nice centerpiece.

before we drift, (like thick fish bones in a tall glass of water)
close the door and tell me how you spoke when you were brittle.

how you learned to swim, which breaths you choose from a line of wind.
clean out your licorice drawer and fill it with rice, try to find me in the grains.
Dec 12

heavy milk

i love too deeply like a clementine behind a grape peel, thick skin with bitter water.
if a puddle on a sunken sidewalk is love, i have fallen in. 

i have stepped in liquid heartache, it is chewed gum on the soles of my shoe. a tongue of cinnamon and cigarettes, you have.

where is the love i saved for myself?
must have left it on a train to new york city.

how slowly ten minutes can go by. 
time holds my bones together with its white grip,
the calcium is getting to me.
up to my neck in milk, i am 2 percent closer to you.

a skim puddle of bleached water disguised as constructive criticism,
two more cups until your blood turns to cream.

mix it with a plastic knife and watch it melt to steam. 
is it oatmeal or alchemy?

i ask you, who am i without my name? without the sound the calls me, (your tongue against your teeth)
i am an empty girl.
Nov 30

counting

grapes don’t last, keep a raisin in your pocket.
you’ll miss the way it feels to hold something so small.

while you carry it, just count with me.
1: i don’t know where to go. you’re scheming, i’m unloading.
2: bring a lamp. tell me what you’re saying, or just run. 
3: i wasn’t cold before you. egg whites on your eyelids aren’t enough,
i just waited too long. you said warmth was too kind.

what is it now?

 
Nov 30

if you were a poem, i'd be a grape leaf

if you were a poem, i’d be a grape leaf;
cold and raw like the back of my throat.

vinegar lips and honey,
pulled branch and soft wind.
(october in a small town)

placid: the bread that’s in the oven is the only thing that’s warm.

let it sit because hot teeth are sour, but don’t do anything else.
you don’t have to grieve over the moon anymore, it’s still there.
just tired.
Feb 21

i am one and you are all of them

on days like these, we hold tea between our teeth.
ask to be calmed by some warm, hopeless skin

like a thin line of chai against porcelain.
sad kids don’t live the way we used to.

we take long showers because warmth holds us softly,
twirl licorice with our tongues as if to tie a knot with an aftertaste.

an acquired feel, winter has;
and fifteen years of ice i've swallowed.

sometimes, i want you to spell out a syllable in my voice.
words seem so much kinder when they drip from your tongue.

if i could have even a bowl of your mistakes, i’d place them on the kitchen counter beside a warm plate of figs,
how much i would like to trade errors because yours, at least, make a nice centerpiece.


before we drift, (like thick fish bones in a tall glass of water)

close the door and tell me how you spoke when you were brittle.
Feb 20

almond cake


maybe i’ll bake again one day.
fold egg whites like blue sheets in july,

summer water on my lips and down the drain as if weren’t an issue anymore.
the rice will always turn to pudding and i’ll never be as old as wine
 
Oct 11

15 words (who am i)

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