In August I have a few things being released (I’ll keep you all posted!) but I figured I’d post the beginnings of another poetry collection I’ve been swimming within.
My sister and I believed our grandfather
sat at the edge of our beds during the night
We told our grandmother this
although we could tell she thought we were lying
And we were.
It’s hard to remember which sister began to believe the lie first
which one of us saw him,
months after our proclamation
at the foot of our twin bed, face lavender white, silent, hand against our knee,
watching us the way a father would watch his children
Every night, excited for the lights to go out
and realize we were not alone
The night you died I crawled into bed
hoping Frankie and I were still so young
we could tell a lie into existence
and together we could claim we awoke to face our father
sitting at the edge of the blankets
body milky water, rain on skin,
there you’d be
My grandfather died before I was born.
We never met him
but we could tell we missed something important
his face everywhere in the house he built in pieces
gaps left unfilled, grout-less after death
our mother, aunts, grandmother told us stories and yet
we grew paranoid we’d never hear
the full history,
they all knew something we didn’t
So it was easy to claim that
after dark, we two
called our grandfather back towards creation
through our desire to love
what the women we loved
we could never fully belong in their world
For the Sake of It
When I was little and my dad found his way home: mange-ridden dog fur clumps dangling from scabby skin—I stuck notes in his wallet. Often there was nothing else—no I.D. not even a penny. Our secret: a small piece of paper left to be discovered on the day he, inevitably, died. Frozen on an alley staircase, bones hissing as they lifted him onto the stretcher: if found, please call 303.733.1758. people loved me here
It grew so terrible. My fear of the phone.
Crawl into a cave. make claws of your hands. What is it you would write without light? All around us we are left with the leavings of those destroyed. They say Neanderthals did not survive because of the brutality of their loneliness. And yet, all alone, swimming in the embryonic caverns of an earth more obviously seizing. compelled to carve abstractions into Dolomite.
24,000 years ago, a time so distant it enfolds me to infinity, a race driven to sea and left to die alone. not even the light of moon over ocean and yet here is the stone and here is the hand in the dark. There is no one left to see me and yet, you see, here I live. Who is it that can say they did not leave us art?
I’ve taken to writing notes in my books. Dear Aliens. If you find this in the heat rash and devastation we’ve left in our wake. believe me. despite all evidence. we were good. please forgive us. people loved us here.
To Say I Love You
we are sisters that believe loving is to have stood too close to a black hole. We’ve happened upon a dying star. To say I love you it is to say, I can’t see myself anymore.
for us: to say I love you is to look at a place even light cannot survive. gravity so strong a slippery veil of photons and electromagnetic waves—moving faster than our eyes can see—cannot escape
but our human minds are limited. what do we know of black holes—something defined by its negative space? Some believe it is from this vacancy our universe was born
We have only theories. when you enter a black hole, can you ever leave? is it destruction or reconstruction or are they the same? matter reconfigured, ordered differently but inevitably, impossible to destroy?
I came across a little boy standing in a courtyard while the sun transformed his hair crow black. light rebounded. I walked towards this child embossed in plumes of murky light, still amongst green. My arm lifted and bore a hammer down upon his skull. without pause for his little frame, felled to earth so quick, I nodded to his mother and left
if only it were so easy to pull these waking thoughts from their hole as to drift from the damage of a dream. as if they were flesh I could peel from the nape of my neck, against my chin, lift this skull
if only the mind were skin