My feather bird is green
and has horns
And when I throw her
she won’t fly
She’ll slide
Because my feather bird
stays still when someone is watching
And hides.
My feather bird has wings
like a crescent moon
And when she flies
up to the clouds
she soars
Because my feather bird
has somewhere she’s trying to go
Someday.
My feather bird is small
and soft
And when I hold her
I can’t feel her
at all
Because my feather bird
is made out of nothing
But dreams
My feather bird is mine
and fragile
And when she waits
she gets weak
and scared
Because my feather bird
sometimes loses her wings
and breaks.
10.10.2006
7.07.2006
Roman Baths
They lolled.
There is no other word
for how they rolled
off the steps
into the baths
laughing
with their heads raised
to the small patch
of square blue sky.
There is no other word
for how they rolled
off the steps
into the baths
laughing
with their heads raised
to the small patch
of square blue sky.
Mauthausen
The birds seem to still recognize the smell of death
They circle the gate beside the wailing wall.
Their cries echoes of the prisoner’s screams delayed for sixty years,
Now bouncing off of the wall and into my chest
Sucking the air out like the gasses from the shower heads
Until I too am a walking skeleton—lost in the shadow behind me.
The rocks chip away at my feet
As I stumble towards the quarry,
A pile of rubble
Built on the backs of the men imprisoned here.
The field to the right is full of wildflowers whispering promise,
beckoning me to believe in the goodness of the world.
To the left is the cliff that gave the men a way out.
A one way flight past the starvation and pain.
Les escalairs de la mort.
I wonder which decision was harder—
choosing life or choosing death.
The crematorium is where even the men break down,
Sinking into a corner and covering their faces,
Looking up over their fingers
At the browning roses
and candles
that mark the place
where three or four bodies
were placed on top of each other
and reduced to plaques and pictures on the wall.
A child has drawn a picture in blues and reds
that looks just like the men—a body all curled up—and hung it up in the corner by the window.
It is all of the people who have left themselves in that room,
Crying silently in the corner.
They circle the gate beside the wailing wall.
Their cries echoes of the prisoner’s screams delayed for sixty years,
Now bouncing off of the wall and into my chest
Sucking the air out like the gasses from the shower heads
Until I too am a walking skeleton—lost in the shadow behind me.
The rocks chip away at my feet
As I stumble towards the quarry,
A pile of rubble
Built on the backs of the men imprisoned here.
The field to the right is full of wildflowers whispering promise,
beckoning me to believe in the goodness of the world.
To the left is the cliff that gave the men a way out.
A one way flight past the starvation and pain.
Les escalairs de la mort.
I wonder which decision was harder—
choosing life or choosing death.
The crematorium is where even the men break down,
Sinking into a corner and covering their faces,
Looking up over their fingers
At the browning roses
and candles
that mark the place
where three or four bodies
were placed on top of each other
and reduced to plaques and pictures on the wall.
A child has drawn a picture in blues and reds
that looks just like the men—a body all curled up—and hung it up in the corner by the window.
It is all of the people who have left themselves in that room,
Crying silently in the corner.
5.05.2006
Stein Spilled
A rose
placed in rows
surely knows
to suppose
as it grows
that a rose
is a rose
is a rose
is a rose
is a rose
is a rose
is a rose.
placed in rows
surely knows
to suppose
as it grows
that a rose
is a rose
is a rose
is a rose
is a rose
is a rose
is a rose.
Gion Kobu
It’s not all plums and violets here.
Her crooked paint slides down
to the off-limit crescent of her back
arched over tatami mats.
She shuffles past
bowing her head demurely.
In these narrow streets
it’s easy to get lost
or trampled on
by tourists chasing a maiko.
Her back is the only thing remembered
about hours walking up and down
between the ancient brown buildings
past red lanterns
just being lit.
The folds of her kimono are silent
even as she steps aside
and the delivery truck,
charred black by the city,
invades the suspense of the Gion Kobu.
Pausing,
attention caught by glinting letters,
the camera focus crashes into itself
from indecision.
She slips into a tea house to pour sake.
Hundreds of telephone wires
tie themselves in knots overhead.
Her crooked paint slides down
to the off-limit crescent of her back
arched over tatami mats.
She shuffles past
bowing her head demurely.
In these narrow streets
it’s easy to get lost
or trampled on
by tourists chasing a maiko.
Her back is the only thing remembered
about hours walking up and down
between the ancient brown buildings
past red lanterns
just being lit.
The folds of her kimono are silent
even as she steps aside
and the delivery truck,
charred black by the city,
invades the suspense of the Gion Kobu.
Pausing,
attention caught by glinting letters,
the camera focus crashes into itself
from indecision.
She slips into a tea house to pour sake.
Hundreds of telephone wires
tie themselves in knots overhead.
She left.
Just like she leaves every other night.
Her pillow will still be fluffed when I wake up in the morning,
but I will still cook her bacon and eggs in our iron skillet
so she won’t get anemic.
I am made up of billions of living pieces—
Almost comforting except thinking of life as science is so clinical.
And I think of how sterile she is, we are, when she eats her eggs.
I tell myself it’s penis envy.
She wants one so bad that she has to feel it throbbing inside of her.
I tell myself that she fucks him for me.
I tell myself a lot of things
like “love is blind”
but it’s just the tears,
and “it will get better,”
but it never makes her come home.
I tell myself I don’t want her to
I tell her I don’t want her.
When he called looking for her
and I was drunk painting my toenails,
He told me I was lucky to have a woman like her.
But I don’t have her,
only a hundred pieces of my heart carved into paper,
ripped to pieces and put in a shoebox on the top shelf of my closet.
She doesn’t even read them before she tears them up.
Sometimes I don’t even finish writing them before she tears them up.
Instead I write something I want to scream at her on each piece,
tearing through the paper with my pen.
The next time she leaves I will throw all the scraps up in the air
and lie on the floor,
surrounded by my anger
and I will draw my arms back and forth
and make a carpet angel.
I will lie with her all night
just to not be alone
staring at the ceiling, letting the paper cuts put me to sleep.
I will close my eyes and tell myself I will be too tired to make eggs in the morning.
I will tell myself a lot of things.
Her pillow will still be fluffed when I wake up in the morning,
but I will still cook her bacon and eggs in our iron skillet
so she won’t get anemic.
I am made up of billions of living pieces—
Almost comforting except thinking of life as science is so clinical.
And I think of how sterile she is, we are, when she eats her eggs.
I tell myself it’s penis envy.
She wants one so bad that she has to feel it throbbing inside of her.
I tell myself that she fucks him for me.
I tell myself a lot of things
like “love is blind”
but it’s just the tears,
and “it will get better,”
but it never makes her come home.
I tell myself I don’t want her to
I tell her I don’t want her.
When he called looking for her
and I was drunk painting my toenails,
He told me I was lucky to have a woman like her.
But I don’t have her,
only a hundred pieces of my heart carved into paper,
ripped to pieces and put in a shoebox on the top shelf of my closet.
She doesn’t even read them before she tears them up.
Sometimes I don’t even finish writing them before she tears them up.
Instead I write something I want to scream at her on each piece,
tearing through the paper with my pen.
The next time she leaves I will throw all the scraps up in the air
and lie on the floor,
surrounded by my anger
and I will draw my arms back and forth
and make a carpet angel.
I will lie with her all night
just to not be alone
staring at the ceiling, letting the paper cuts put me to sleep.
I will close my eyes and tell myself I will be too tired to make eggs in the morning.
I will tell myself a lot of things.
Tracing the Myth
Twisted, the tongues of Babel
talked about their Troy—
If only
Helen hadn’t bedded Bartholomew and Belphoebe,
bombshells all across
the Grecian shore.
Her face couldn’t be more engrained into the mind’s history
had it been carved from the Rosetta Stone.
But I still have to search for it every day to remind myself of how lost I am
in a world of six billion ships.
Women are supposed to have black eyelashes
and lick our lips,
and cock our heads,
and wilt into chairs,
So we tie ourselves into the corsets of being beautiful
until w find ourselves shackled
to a mountaintop,
prone,
naked tears in our eyes,
our teeth tearing into our lips,
and our spleens dropping bloody tracks
torn from our sides by hawks bills
dropped
scorched by Hyperion’s faulty chariot flight
caught
and finally extinguished on Icarus’ wings
as he plunges into the sea
along the edge of Bruegel’s painting,
dredged up again with Wallace Steven’s moonlit face.
I am vulnerable to the only canon I know,
even when lead and Aramaic replace
my eyes in the mirror.
talked about their Troy—
If only
Helen hadn’t bedded Bartholomew and Belphoebe,
bombshells all across
the Grecian shore.
Her face couldn’t be more engrained into the mind’s history
had it been carved from the Rosetta Stone.
But I still have to search for it every day to remind myself of how lost I am
in a world of six billion ships.
Women are supposed to have black eyelashes
and lick our lips,
and cock our heads,
and wilt into chairs,
So we tie ourselves into the corsets of being beautiful
until w find ourselves shackled
to a mountaintop,
prone,
naked tears in our eyes,
our teeth tearing into our lips,
and our spleens dropping bloody tracks
torn from our sides by hawks bills
dropped
scorched by Hyperion’s faulty chariot flight
caught
and finally extinguished on Icarus’ wings
as he plunges into the sea
along the edge of Bruegel’s painting,
dredged up again with Wallace Steven’s moonlit face.
I am vulnerable to the only canon I know,
even when lead and Aramaic replace
my eyes in the mirror.
Satori
I paused today
to watch the ballet
of two blackbirds on the next door roof,
not aloof.
One heard a car going past
and flew away
fast.
The other sat for a little while
and left a pile
of white drippings.
The sound of his wings is
a rustle in the breeze
as he lands once more
by the first.
They turn their heads
to their own beats
instead of together in neat
rhythm.
At once it makes sense.
There is no Buddha.
Only blackbirds.
Enlightenment
in the hint
of each feather.
to watch the ballet
of two blackbirds on the next door roof,
not aloof.
One heard a car going past
and flew away
fast.
The other sat for a little while
and left a pile
of white drippings.
The sound of his wings is
a rustle in the breeze
as he lands once more
by the first.
They turn their heads
to their own beats
instead of together in neat
rhythm.
At once it makes sense.
There is no Buddha.
Only blackbirds.
Enlightenment
in the hint
of each feather.
Embarkation
The waves crumple and crinkle, tinfoil turning molten in the sun. Her wings flutter and her tale carves a serpent in the crushed blue velvet surface. The grasses whistle next to her ears and she lifts tentatively off the boardwalk. She salutes the sunshine as the ship slices its way out to sea. The rudder foam coats the sides of her stomach.
The silence of all the little blue bubbles of liquid ink drifting back and forth in the pen’s viewing window signal the end of her hard day’s work. She spent it pulling the seams of the patchwork beach quilt back together—all of the pieces of their separate lives haphazardly pasted together.
Her Fate’s-thread is thicker than a spider’s web and sticks to her characters, two bundles of prey vibrating in the wind rolling over the dunes.
She watches, smiling, waiting for the wind to pull them out to sea.
The silence of all the little blue bubbles of liquid ink drifting back and forth in the pen’s viewing window signal the end of her hard day’s work. She spent it pulling the seams of the patchwork beach quilt back together—all of the pieces of their separate lives haphazardly pasted together.
Her Fate’s-thread is thicker than a spider’s web and sticks to her characters, two bundles of prey vibrating in the wind rolling over the dunes.
She watches, smiling, waiting for the wind to pull them out to sea.
Because Someone Has to Go
The foggy soldiers stand tall,
trees with light fleeing through their camouflage petals.
Too old to be ready for battle,
I hear them murmur
under the screeching calls of birds overhead
begging for a breeze to bring the enemy into battle.
The thunder rumbles
in the distance
translating war from the sharp Arabic.
I wretch at the smell of fear floating from my skin
sitting here fighting with myself.
A revolution for peace
churns itself up into my throat,
the bile stinging my tongue.
I taste the tightness of my cheeks,
the pain of all of these old, scarred faces
looking down on me as I pass.
I drop to my knees and close my eyes.
Salty rain paints my cheeks
two drops at a time.
I want to scream
from the guilt of trying to forget
that you are thereand I am here,
Searching for your soldier’s smile.
trees with light fleeing through their camouflage petals.
Too old to be ready for battle,
I hear them murmur
under the screeching calls of birds overhead
begging for a breeze to bring the enemy into battle.
The thunder rumbles
in the distance
translating war from the sharp Arabic.
I wretch at the smell of fear floating from my skin
sitting here fighting with myself.
A revolution for peace
churns itself up into my throat,
the bile stinging my tongue.
I taste the tightness of my cheeks,
the pain of all of these old, scarred faces
looking down on me as I pass.
I drop to my knees and close my eyes.
Salty rain paints my cheeks
two drops at a time.
I want to scream
from the guilt of trying to forget
that you are thereand I am here,
Searching for your soldier’s smile.
More than Once Upon a Time
I lived happily ever after
Until they put my name in the headlines:
“Virginal Princess Awaits Rescue.”
Every day I would lie sleeping,
Cooled by the breeze through the tower window
Or warmed by the dragon’s breath.
No disturbances,
Only dreams.
With my eyes closed
I could see the shining knight
On his horse
In a field of white roses
And poppies
Trotting to my rescue.
He never galloped.
I wasn’t going anywhere.
He would prance outside my window,
Flashing a sparkling Crest smile,
Waving and thrusting his sword over his head.
The anticipation was enough to keep me asleep.
But then he “rescued” me.
So instead of a shining knight on a horse,
Instead of poppy fields and dreamy eyes,
I’m stuck under the overweight victor
Who lost three teeth to the dragon’s tail.
Instead of happily ever after
I’m stuck with his rough fingers
Fumbling their way inside me every night.
He didn’t even bring me flowers,
And believe me when I say
He was definitely compensating for something
With his sword.
Now I lie awake night after night
Faking a headache.
Praying for an old woman to bring me a poison apple.
Until they put my name in the headlines:
“Virginal Princess Awaits Rescue.”
Every day I would lie sleeping,
Cooled by the breeze through the tower window
Or warmed by the dragon’s breath.
No disturbances,
Only dreams.
With my eyes closed
I could see the shining knight
On his horse
In a field of white roses
And poppies
Trotting to my rescue.
He never galloped.
I wasn’t going anywhere.
He would prance outside my window,
Flashing a sparkling Crest smile,
Waving and thrusting his sword over his head.
The anticipation was enough to keep me asleep.
But then he “rescued” me.
So instead of a shining knight on a horse,
Instead of poppy fields and dreamy eyes,
I’m stuck under the overweight victor
Who lost three teeth to the dragon’s tail.
Instead of happily ever after
I’m stuck with his rough fingers
Fumbling their way inside me every night.
He didn’t even bring me flowers,
And believe me when I say
He was definitely compensating for something
With his sword.
Now I lie awake night after night
Faking a headache.
Praying for an old woman to bring me a poison apple.
Grandma Said: A Villanelle
Do I really have to sleep here tonight?
Where in the world has my husband gone?
Sally, please don’t turn out the light.
I have been telling you, I feel alright
And it’s time that I go home to John.
Do I really have to sleep here tonight?
Sally, my stomach doesn’t feel quite right.
Will John come back before too long?
Sally, please don’t turn out the light.
I don’t think I can stand another night.
For sixty years I’ve slept beside John.
Do I really have to sleep here tonight?
I hate it here! Please make it right.
I want to go back home where I belong.
Sally, please don’t turn out the light.
Reach over and hold my hand tight.
I don’t want to go like this, without John.
Do I really have to sleep here tonight?
She didn’t stop to say, “Don’t turn off the light.”
Where in the world has my husband gone?
Sally, please don’t turn out the light.
I have been telling you, I feel alright
And it’s time that I go home to John.
Do I really have to sleep here tonight?
Sally, my stomach doesn’t feel quite right.
Will John come back before too long?
Sally, please don’t turn out the light.
I don’t think I can stand another night.
For sixty years I’ve slept beside John.
Do I really have to sleep here tonight?
I hate it here! Please make it right.
I want to go back home where I belong.
Sally, please don’t turn out the light.
Reach over and hold my hand tight.
I don’t want to go like this, without John.
Do I really have to sleep here tonight?
She didn’t stop to say, “Don’t turn off the light.”
Contingent Future
My wrinkles wink through rouge
applied too thickly.
An oversized black cashmere sweater slouches off my shoulder.
A haphazard 80s-style ponytail leans to the right as I tilt over this page
in my underwear,
eating pickles out of a jar with a dessert fork.
That forty-year-old woman is in me somewhere
She’ll be watching Fantasia on mute, listening to the local radio station,
because she’s tired of “Dark Side of the Moon,”
thinking back to the one thing she remembers about 2004:
getting stoned with Arrested Development after the show.
All it took was
having silky hips,
and thinking college allure lasted forever,
and waiting for you to come home and kiss me.
I tried to turn into a feminist while you were out
because the TV was full of patriarchal propaganda—
static-filled fingers reaching out to pull my hair.
The TV says there is still something to the rumor:
“Women want to be wives.”
I close my eyes to resist,
But beyond my eyelids I see you telling me my fears
below bare trees,
And then I know—
I will be old,
sleeping in cashmere
waiting for you to come home
because you never will.
applied too thickly.
An oversized black cashmere sweater slouches off my shoulder.
A haphazard 80s-style ponytail leans to the right as I tilt over this page
in my underwear,
eating pickles out of a jar with a dessert fork.
That forty-year-old woman is in me somewhere
She’ll be watching Fantasia on mute, listening to the local radio station,
because she’s tired of “Dark Side of the Moon,”
thinking back to the one thing she remembers about 2004:
getting stoned with Arrested Development after the show.
All it took was
having silky hips,
and thinking college allure lasted forever,
and waiting for you to come home and kiss me.
I tried to turn into a feminist while you were out
because the TV was full of patriarchal propaganda—
static-filled fingers reaching out to pull my hair.
The TV says there is still something to the rumor:
“Women want to be wives.”
I close my eyes to resist,
But beyond my eyelids I see you telling me my fears
below bare trees,
And then I know—
I will be old,
sleeping in cashmere
waiting for you to come home
because you never will.
Masai Maru
Flies,
(black tears of happiness)
crawl down parched cheeks.
Children wait to touch blond hair.
Women stand unconscious of exposed flesh
below beaded necks.
They lead us inside
to the fire
that wards off the stench of dung walls
melting in the blazing winter sun.
Hand-made jewelry is passed on
in exchange for Paula Abdul tapes
and high fives.
We think we have so much to give—
viewers through a two-sided mirror.
(black tears of happiness)
crawl down parched cheeks.
Children wait to touch blond hair.
Women stand unconscious of exposed flesh
below beaded necks.
They lead us inside
to the fire
that wards off the stench of dung walls
melting in the blazing winter sun.
Hand-made jewelry is passed on
in exchange for Paula Abdul tapes
and high fives.
We think we have so much to give—
viewers through a two-sided mirror.
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