jackielfult

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.

haikus are just that: a collection of rhythms packaged for silence.

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