Please understand,
I am slow, these days;
once etherized & exteriorized
a hundred thousand ways.
You tell me, do what the doctor says.
But that’s a life I can’t imagine living.
Strangled tissue rarely dies
a quiet, peaceful death;
is it so wrong to let it lie?
To consider it unwise
to revive a thing
that only played at being alive?
The heart knits itself
up a little wrong,
puts stitches...
None of us were strangers to conflict. Working at a dry cleaner in a neighbourhood like this, you see some things. You meet humans at their lowest, desperate to steam their sins away.
I thought I knew all the ways one man could turn on another, but a grey peacoat with a mustard stain proved me wrong.
When I found that little beige card, I wasn’t surprised. Dissapointed, maybe. But not surprise...
The formal hoop always comforted me. I could drape my clothform over the plastic, keeping it far away from my body, separating my private self from my official role. The light, silky underlayer gave me comfort and space to think. I valued the awareness that no one was close to touching my physical body. For younger envoys, it could be hard to keep your cool in the feigned intimacy of a diplomatic ...
He said, “You are the spring
sky full of hope.”
So I let the rainwater
soak my hair,
now he drinks as the birds
and bees elope.
(I think you’d drown
to prove to him you care).
He said, “To me you
are the summer shade.”
So I blocked the sun
‘til I was burning,
& when I fainted
he was so betrayed.
(Yet his touch will always
leave you yearning.)
I stayed when he said,
“If you’re gone I’m ...
The particle board splinters.
My rough touch is too much
for what I can afford.
This thing is precious to me
in its necessity
&now its cracks
spread across my ribs;
(I plea with myself,
it’s just a shelf,
it’s just a shelf.)
parts without places
scattered on the floor.
someone else is crying
inside my body. I live
as the lost pegs
under the dresser
drawer, lying
to my dust bunny confessor...
Maybe you thought your cup
was empty when the love came
spilling out—
your chapped lips
pressed against the rim
to wash away the taste of doubt
maybe you thought its contents toxic,
a complex bacterial court—
but from that stagnant cup
you drank a thick, sweet summer port
I know how dear the taste would be
from the cup that we now share.
I know it when our fingers brush,
when I smell your coc...
It was a question of faith.
The wind’s heavy hands pushed Monica back and away from the edge. It stole the heat from her body, pushed her hair in front of her eyes, doing what it could to draw her away from the crumbling grey rock and onto the grass.
Few things in existence were deserving of faith. If your loyalty was rewarded, it was a matter of luck, not anything divine, not anything sacred o...
