Jun 07

it was me

my eyelid is so soft in the bent ikea light.

quickly, that i'll bend to gum. turn to analysis and that’s what keeps me there, i’d burn the glass as the kitchen scale
i’d like to know the raw egg of my mind. i wish you’d run it under cold water and return it to my forehead, dripping from the sink (i fall asleep on my hand and pulled back hair)
i wish it was me.

 
Apr 26

chives

born by chives, wisteria. i’ve been well but embalmed by last night;
i can’t carry one’s bone to my house, can’t sew a ripened meal with a buried hand.
saw them link, i wasn’t there. i could write of being uninvited, but it’s communal and i’m closed by tides; days revolve around one, i’m driven to a muted bed.

you don’t know me well, the grievances on my floor. 
oatmeal was revived by ginger, a blonde in a book.
i burnt my omelette reading an email this morning, then split a date in half.
carrots soft again but charcoaled rims because of someone else’s shoulder and my metal fork; i’m distracted by the weight of it.
in love with the gritting of my teeth. drawn to the release of it and furtive mouths, with lemon peel, sweetened. grocery store muffins, say my name or write it on your sleeve; they are so unlikely
Mar 17

claudia in first grade

sometimes i rip ginger from the root; bite down, it makes my eyes water.
(turns my spit to heat)
i won’t ask to have it repeated because i feel a child among the ones who carry solid teeth.
mine are there, bones, but have seen nothing on you.

in four hours i’ll write again, taste to a kidney. fermented grape to ours.
do you like the sap of grenadine, or the body of a man

(i think split ends were dyed, i didn’t know)
i was six, then. you were thin-lipped with a girl to your waist.

 
Mar 17

i listen to sinead o'connor on the floor and feel a bit inadequate

i sign up for a poem in my rib.
sit on cold floor olive oil
sinead over me and leaving, sings of troy and i

i’m uneven. my father builds bread and i don’t wake up as i used to, but you’d give the morning for my tongue and i’d regress for cold milk
it’s a rift of brine to know you, but to walk beside the two of them is flat.
i hate the things she says to me. blended mist to liquor.

 
Mar 17

hands, eggs, women


i’m sorry all my poems bleed sick.
i’ve only written one thing: slip from wet hands, boiled eggs. older women.
this body that’s whisking from my forehead to stomach peel, all i ever say is milk.

(i don’t want to pull you because a hollow word is a recipe)
vienna waits, but i’m growing old. she holds me as a plum in her palm.
 
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.

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