All living things have stories they won't tell
It's quiet after-storm, and all around
The forests hush as fast as they are felled
What trespass have these solemn stairways held?
Their pause is written softly in the ground
All living things have stories they won't tell
The wood's bare wind all layers from me peeled
We pass untrenched, unguarded, and unbound
The forests hush as fast as they are felled
Our winter clothes us like an Easter shell
They whisper to us as we make the rounds
All living things have stories they won't tell
And looking north, in cold our fingers weld
As if defense against the path we've wound
The forests hus
Thanksgiving's always meant
a thanks for end to hour practices,
crunches to "work off all the rolls" and turkey
we had dared so as to eat. Miss Cindy's
measuring tape snaps in her hands, three
numbers called to label just how small
your chest, how big your butt's
become. how dare you grow a size; big
girls are not good dancers. starve the lead
out of your feet, your jump. your mind.
we three shifted uncomfortably in
tights, me tugging on elastic hand-me-
downs that sagged around my thighs.
the person in the mirror isn't me (i swear
my cheeks aren't usually this pale) the
lights lay strip and bare.
none of them here have ever s
the flies inside the sliding door, they
throw themselves against the glass.
repeating, broken-winged stop-
motion, buzzing disbelief because
door doesn't move. continuing
tired routine, their leaps keep me from
sleep.
like flies, or rather, gnats: the
thoughts inside my head. trapped,
shaking with certain doubt, an eager
deprecation and devout. the words
quiver with sound, coming in spurts, the noise,
as they stubbornly slap against my
skull. each syll! a! ble! be! comes!
per! cuss! ive! beat!
driving its message through your throat.
it's anxious, yes, inspiring late nights
and insomno-pillow fights, b
I guess she likes bad boys. Rugged boys. Verbally abusive boys. That's what they tell me, anyway. But I can't help but stare as she trudges down the hallway, fists clenched, combat boots squeaking on mirrored linoleum. She shakes sticky brown hair out of her deep, muddy eyes and my heart stops. Maude Lynch. She's beautiful.
Sometimes I come home, confront myself in the mirror, and search for something she might see in me. Admittedly there's not much to see thin-rimmed glasses, even thinner build. Dark circles from late nights with my other woman, World of Warcraft. Jeans, Nikes, and one of the plain red shirts my Mom buys me that com
enormous hulks of buildings tower menacingly, cast against an ominous sky. they lend their slanting shadows to the entire town, covering tiny shops and cars and stores in their constant eclipse. there must be people, too, inside those buildings -- only specks against their shining urban scene, all scurrying like ants. above it all the ceiling churns with coming storms, chaotic threats, and greyscale swirls competing with skyscrapers for respect. the city's huge and cold.
this summer could bring art, resurgence.
walls could drip with paint in blue
and black and white as I lift
rollers on extenders from my moving
chair, these arms will turn
the wheels. I could make dates with
Daniel Johnston and confront my
hell, sing songs of mountain dew. I
could find strangers who would fall in
love and then desert. break and re
break my name.
I could grasp a guitar, translate
vicodin onto the strings (don't ever
trust a man who plays). I could
imagine south virginian hills and
coax pastels to make them real.
I could call home, for once.
or call you and beg you to stay
away, packing your future into plasti
we walk for hours, teetering on
rocky crags above the crashing
waves. the starfish swirl, release their
hold to lay upon the tide, and I remain
transfixed. the jagged edges of the
cliff reject my feet and curl to
fell the soles. the rest keep walking on.
alone upon my cliff, I greet the
setting sun that casts me as a
shade. this backdrop holds me still.
I long to release hold, just like
that starfish unsecured. under the
water I could sink away, without a
thought of where my footing lies. and then
I'd disappear, all as you walk
beyond the briny pools I moor. I had
followed you here and I forgot
myself. I fall into the waves.
Lizzie, hush your wagging
tongue. I know that axe you aim was meant
for me. I know where secrets
lie.
out in the garden, childhood days
spent picturing peaches on the empty
trees. you'd sit in Easter hat and
watch the thousand cotton seeds
drift by, where is your bonnet,
now?
in mother's bedroom, behind closet
doors you'd play, until once met by
unfamiliar sounds. your mother crawled
with strangers underneath
the sheets. you never dared
cry out.
or in the chapel, prayer book
in hand as you struggled to learn the
verses' sound. the pastor's eyes upon you
as you stumbled through each "thy"
and "thine", your lace dress itched