Untitled for L
This poem was the Honorable Mention award in Dakota County Library's 2010 poetry contest and was also selected as part of Bill Cohen's Tattooed Poets Project and published on oxypoet.blogspot.com in April 2010.
I.
His couch swallowed your stuff.
That’s how this all started.
The trinkets:
a sacral chakra rock
a grungy penny
once relied upon for luck are gone
They must have served their purpose
because they led you here
to the bear lair
where the furnace whispers
as your breath harmonizes
with his heart
beat
Just before he fell asleep
he stroked his hairy chest
and teased
“You stole my chi.”
Now sounds
estrogen will not allow you to make
thrum through the room
and his scent is so intoxicating
you’d happily bury your face
in his armpits
(as unromantic though it may seem)
Your body is tender
and sticky and sour
concerns you should have discussed
as responsible adults hover
but…
hmm...
that delicious trickle
like a sexy serum you carry inside
is worth the risk of almost anything
II.
You leave.
Reluctantly?
On the walk of shame you spy
a woman with a holey scarf
hurtling snowballs
at her boyfriend
Fog spreads across the cityscape
like a lace veil waiting to be lifted
and a pair of hoodlum teens
slogging by in saggy jeans
marvel at the balmy quality of the air tonight
It’s March, they say
The world wants to melt along with you
revealing spring, damp and pregnant with promise
You are the only thing that moves
on the road at this hour
the only one running away
from warmth on purpose
Still…
everything is bright and beautiful
and alive on the drive
despite the empty streets
you’re speeding all the same
writing at the red lights
fingers flipping through the stack of sticky notes
and when the lines won’t be contained
you know you’re a goner
III.
You undress at home.
Alone.
And notice you’re holding
his sock hostage
by mistake
A note to self is made:
Do not launder
as eventually you’ll shower
and the traces of him on your skin
will be erased
keep at least
this one piece
of evidence
just in case…
Silence descends and
the place his fist rested on your chest
as he surrendered to incessant sleep twitches
aches in his absence
And it’s then you realize what you missed
in all those agonizing months of waiting
was not sex per se
What you ached for was laughter
the kind of giggling that rattles your ribcage
and leaves you breathless and blushing
you can do everything solo
except incite that level of silliness
in yourself
What you hungered for
was his insistent grip on your neck
fingers in forbidden places
hands so hot they thawed the knots
your (overrated) independence earned
IV.
A man who didn’t want you
once declared,
“You are demanding fire.”
He swore a fearless suitor would arrive
in time and stay
despite the writing cyclone
What if this is him
and instead
you
are the one
afraid of flames?
V.
There’s a song that goes,
“Someday someone’s
gonna ask you
a question
you should say yes to”
You would have liked to author that
because this is not a poem
(you don’t know how to write those anymore)
but a tired attempt at making sense
of that which has no words.
Heirloom
Save The Crumbs, Issue 24
This love is a shovel
where ground waits to break
Forget cement; sensuality and seeds
are all we need
Eden beneath naked feet
you walk the wonderland with me
Dirt, the purest form of prayer
tattooed on bare knees
Joy drips from gushing lips
when you taste our tart harvest
Welcome to the first bite
of the rest of your life
Words Caught Crossways in a Woman's Throat
Save The Crumbs, Issue 21
The night we first collided
a twister ripped through town
the rest of the world witnessed
the savage windswept trees
the hail ravaged roads
the apocalyptic cityscape
I didn’t see a thing
I'd been cocooned
in the ecstatic cyclone
of your arms
Firstborn
Moon Journal, 2007
Plum rubber hands
Slithered between
Slick thighs
Do you want to view
the tissue?
Tissue
Was not the name
I’d picked
For my firstborn
My baby
Fetal pink
Cleaned of blood
Bobbed in the bell jar
Beside the bed
Sex undecided
Curled and cute
A cocktail shrimp
Skin thin
As shredded Kleenex
Midnight marble eyes
Mitten hands to
Knobby nose
Only burrowed
Eight weeks
In my belly
An abbreviated lifetime
This wounded womb
Will never heal
Scarred and scabbing
Remains unclaimed
Muddy Waters
Winner of the First Place Teen Poetry Contest, Powderhorn Writer's Festival 1997
Mist rises in foggy swirls over the water
I start off early
Slowly stroke the lake with my paddle
Ripples chase my worn canoe
But never seem to catch up
Smells of pine and warm cinnamon
Remind me of an uncommon life
On this majestic and ever-changing patch of Earth
When I was young I laid on these shores
Sun warming my back
Fingertips creating gentle tessellations in the moisture
My distorted reflection dissects every movement
Afraid of drowning
I grasp the pole
At the edge of the dock
Submerged in a collage of seaweed and sand
Childhood lost is found again as my boat
Drifts under a willow tree
The vines licking my cheeks
Soft as a mother’s touch
My canoe comes to a sauntering halt
Feel rebel from shoes and I hang my legs over the side
The coolness tickling my toes
Liberating my senses
A hazy sunlight is cast upon the lake
As I lie in the belly of my boat
I watch the clouds slither by
Fabricating fables for each new white shadow
As night falls
Gracefully floating loons dance across the water
Sound out
Tear at my eardrums
I hear chants from a campfire several docks away
I see the blistering flames climb and fall
I smell burnt marshmallows
intoxicated
Why I Don't Write Short Stories
Writer's Journal, May/June 2008
I refuse to indulge fiction
I've earned the right
to write my life
as I survived it
I suffered the experience
now it's my story to tell
on my time
I will claim
that which
belongs to me
in my own voice
