POETRY
/ˈpəʊɪtri/
noun
literary work in which the expression of feelings and ideas is given intensity by the use of distinctive style and rhythm; poems collectively or as a genre of literature.
I remember being fifteen, sitting on my roof at night; feeling, feeling everything. Without thinking I took a pen and my journal and I wrote my first poem. I've never gone back to read it, but I remember it was about stars and it barely filled the page. And the weight was lifted. I felt enormous, unexplainable relief in having taken what was within and given it a home on paper. Realizing I could attempt to capture the power of the stars and celestial bodies in less than a page was the beginning of my pilgrimage through the wild geography of poetry.
Choses Que Je Ne Savais Pas Aimé
​
I didn’t know that I loved the smell of lilac in April air. The way
cobblestones feel underfoot, sounds of spoons
against cups.
I didn’t know how I loved the sound of Edith Piaf
while walking along the Seine. The way I would drag my
index finger along the ragged edge of Pont Neuf, until a drop of blood
seeps from freshly broken skin.
I didn’t know that I love the way French men kiss
my thighs. The way his lips felt against my Monday
morning skin.
I didn’t know how good he would taste
after eating croissants, espresso-stained tongue. The way
he sauntered away on the platform,
boarding his train to Bretagne, as I took a drag from my slender cigarette.
I didn’t know I loved the sound of the accordion
playing, as the sun paints itself across
Sacré Coeur. I did not know I could ever love
my own company so fully. I didn’t know I loved alone, like
lilac alone in the atmosphere.
​
Sacré Coeur. I did not know I could ever love
my own company so fully. I didn’t know I loved alone, like
lilac alone in the atmosphere.
No (Perhaps) In Aries
​
when your body enters my body
i hear a symphony; no (perhaps), i hear
the orchestra of skin and saliva,
the way breaths turn into melody
and pour seamlessly into me
back pressed firm against less than
perfect sheets, and i feel the world
under my feet; no (perhaps), i feel
your tongue sliding along the soft
inner skin on my ankle. there is
no list; no earth here
with little regard to the pace of my breath,
my widened eyes search the ceiling for
constellations;
i have never believed in maps, but i believe
in the way you navigate
the topography of my body
skin against nails, nails against skin;
you smell of fresh cut
timber, black pepper; body and blood
i fell for you; no (perhaps), i stepped into you,
into the idea of you. but
all the same now; as i breathe you in
the same way i breathe in your cigarette
smoke – secondhand,
and not entirely my own
and then, the moon pulled the tides
of my womb; my menses dripped from between
my legs like honey; no (perhaps) i released you
with one last fight against flesh and mind;
the way my body begged to build a body-
flesh and blood;
the way my mind screamed out
in the deafening silence; there is no space for you here –
the sign now reads no vacancy,
for the rooms have been filled to the brim.
i have honeymooned myself; i have
felt the ebb and flow of my body; the way
the wetness drips like rain into an already full reservoir.
i need not wait for you to acknowledge this body
as oasis; for this soil is wet enough
for me to plant my own seed – i am blessed
to have a body that bleeds
A box of mom. He means ashes of course, but how strange it is that a human a person a mother cÂÂÂÂÂan become something that fits tidily into a box. How neat, how perfectly contained a human life is after all the mess of living is done with.
He speaks these words in his classic dad style and I cannot help but think about the day I will someday have this bestowed upon me, the ability to say, half joke half macabre, a box of dad
and he will be there in my hands dust to dust and I will wonder if this contains him and his life or if this whole thing is just a means to an end, a means to grieve something we never really understood in the first place, family.
Can a human ever be so contained? By box or life or air? Have I ever felt contained? Altogether? Held.
Will my box of dad contain the essence of my father, this man and all his oddities?
The way he says ruff instead of roof and now he stuffers over the word phenomenal and how he says brassiere like something from another time. How he drinks wine like water and laughs in his belly when I sarcastically say, whatever the doctor orders.
Will my box of dad be made of wood? The way I think of my father and then the smell of two by fours and Adirondack chairs. Will the wood contain him like the forest that contains the oak trees?
I think of him reading long books about histories he’ll probably never remember
but will now be able to arm his know it all-ness with pages from a book when he slings around his you shoulds.
And years from now when I toss handfuls of ash from my box into the Nippersink River I will think of my father traveling the world from this river. Remember?
Eventually my box of dad will be drowned in river water and one day will reach the currants that cross the world, and on every shoreline, he will be there, they will be there. This is story of a lineage that cannot be contained.
there is no glass here,
by which i mean, passingÂ
windows proves fruitless to catchÂ
glimpses of oneself;Â
reflection comes in morning fogÂ
candlelit nights and the art
of fetching water;
there is no space - nfasi - for ego here
there leaves little time forÂ
vanity; yet, there remains comfortÂ
in the passing of windows
left open, as to create a home both
within, and withoutÂ
nature - asili - to find oneselfÂ
starring fruitfully into the void
as we lay naked, i tell you how wild
it was that, as children we painted oceans blue
after all, when you look from a distance
shades appear in indigo and then utterly clear
when cupped into hands
we envision i love yous coming in some grandeur
and glory; i imagine grand central station kisses
and i love yous across blue ceiling skies
and yet i love yous never appear like that
they appear drunk and fragmented
uncertain and doubtful
they appear in quiet moments tucked into
corners of hearts not quite ready to be broken
​
Bombardier sirens and crystal glass crushed under feet
desperate hands against cheeks; reaching
grasping; every morning calloused hands transcribing a
symphony from memory as I wait for the heavy beating
of the Sumatran sun;
harmonizing the ache of broken voices and
shattered hearts.
I am the unstruck stone; the chords gone unsung.
I am slack-jawed and weary begging at the feet of
my mother. Dust to dust, salted lungs.
​
Beer-battered and weary,
I bow my head over the empty glass.
Waylon Jennings seeps into my ears
through the broken-down jukebox.
I study my guitar-playing hands,
over-grown nails, I hear flamenco.
I take notice of myself in the mirror, stained and
cracked, florescent red painted across my face.
Did I always look so broken? Swollen and
hell bent. Just genetics, I whisper, as
I light a cigarette and order another drink.
