You say so many words for distance

that I begin to measure breadths

everywhere—

(I’m always short, the amount I am)

I want to claim I’m past my grief’s

whooping—but I still hear it.

(You’re water, we’re in each other)

Post-swim, I shake some of you

out through my ears. Listen,

I would choose not to love you.

(if I could)

I tell my body to steer my heart’s

helm, wear the suit. I captain myself.

(I control the ache that I am)

Except the suit scratches, the boat

won’t move, I am posing with the display

inside of your museum—

I lay here and wonder why,

Why can’t I just really try,

Try my best to be glad,

Glad that he’s not always mad,

Mad at me the way he used to,

He’s nicer and sweeter too,

To me he is still neglecting though, and I don’t know what to do….

Do about it because I don’t wanna mess up what is good,

Good but still not quite enough for me,

Me you see, I think that’s the problem I face,

Facing it because it\s all my fault I can’t be happy,

Happy he’s atleast trying,

Trying to do his best,

Best isn’t always good

I lay here and wonder why,

Why can’t I just really try,

Try my best to be glad,

Glad that he’s not always mad,

Mad at me the way he used to,

He’s nicer and sweeter too,

To me he is still neglecting though, and I don’t know what to do….

Do about it because I don’t wanna mess up what is good,

Good but still not quite enough for me,

Me you see, I think that’s the problem I face,

Facing it because it\s all my fault I can’t be happy,

Happy he’s atleast trying,

Trying to do his best,

Best isn’t always good enough and for that I am sorry,

Sorry that I am failing….

Failing at just about everything, even when he’s putting forth an effort,

An effort that I hope I can take,

Take and hold and run with my all,

All that I have because above everything else he is my love,

Love that will not break or fail; no,

No I affirm, for his soul is mine and mine is his and for eternity we will together, this life overthrow…

ARay

Sapere aude

The moon stretched across my skin

And the light

Which spills

in

a

flood

Pouring

out

of the sun

in my chest –

There is such beauty

revealed

In a flash of light

Love is a gift, despite

Not all men being worthy of it

Louder, Louder, LOUDER

Wide mouth like a scarlet flower

And dark eyes which render a face

Uncommonly intelligent

To be born woman is to know

We must labor to be beautiful

To bear the Sistine Chapel

Between our ears

Down our torsos

Turn around, Orpheus,

The darkness calls

Louder, louder, louder

Memory transforms

Lovers into poets

Melancholia swallows men

Whole

on my sixty-seventh birthday i stand in the middle of a cornfield

and pry my ribcage open with two sharp rocks.

there are birds between my lungs, made mad

by wombs of semi-dark, never having learned

to fly, never having sung except

as the world lie sleeping.

these bodies falling out of my body,

tired bodies, feeble and hollow-boned,

and my body becoming the empty church,

shedding sins like snakeskin, trailing past long and heavy.

it begins to rain, so i will drown soon, and look, the birds like oil spills

slick slick slick in the water, and the black swan dancers preparing my funeral song.

i remember my mother and the way she always told me not to get caught in the rain.

i remember the way she took a blackbird hungry, cold, from a storm,

and perched him on her shoulder. the birds at my feet begin to sing

in the downpour, calm and low, a song about light emerging

from the darkness of the throat. they don’t know how to fight

but they do it anyway. our bones shake with the hymnal.

war prayer. church blessing. filling and hungry.

it’s the kind of melody that sounds like a lover’s voice

beside you in bed in the middle of a dream about drowning.

Roses are red like the blood on my hands,

The ones that conquered all armies and lands.

Violets are blue like robes of great lords,

Who bargain their souls for the price of my sword.

Beyond the wire

Or maybe just a little past

The metal grid

Live the curated

Pretties and practically-perfects

That point their toes

And perform for me

When I seek pleasure

Though their landings

Are not precise enough

To breach the barrier

To true happiness

On mornings such as these,

with wrens among the trees,

condensing breath will greet

the air surrounding me.

And then the neighbors see

the cold and swaying breeze

that pushes birds to fly along with ease.

(I'm reposting this so you all can see it broken up since Prose publishes it all in one line under the description).

Until I naively ran straight into my death,

Spending my final breaths laughing

At the fool I’d been

I cherished the gravity of my dear folly

For it was lovely

The melted wax tickled the skin of my back

The strangeness to fall into icy water

As Apollo, at sun’s zenith, watched my descent

I am servant to a shared passion that slips from my fingers on its downward path.

Feeling myself ill treated, I could raise my voice, raise my cry, cock the hammer back and let fly the feeble words to call it back.

Why call it back when it does me no good? Makes me no more clever than a pile of ashes.

I burn. I glow like a neon flame, providing no heat, no warmth, no cozy little affectations, but a steady stream of vulgarities, trading my wares in the shambles.

“Do you think you know,” I says to myself, “what you’re about?” “I really don’t know.” says I.

Please someone get me out of here, this heat (hell) is stifling. My tongue swells.

I await trial. A sacred imbecile, hunched over in his chair, waiting for his turn, his chance to explain, his opportunity to convince his righteous judge to take damnation off the table.

I digress. I’m weary with words, wearing the shame of my fathers, bearing the blame of my mothers, sharing a name with the blood of my breeding.

I am in control. Am I? Are we?Are you? I take a straight path, a single stab at life. A winding arc of inconsistency, a floating ark of obtuseness.

We stand tall on the morning, bow low with the mourning. Keep pace on the turnstiles, bleed out with the rocks.