Category Archives: Forms

Untitled

robin’s egg blue reminds me of peacocks,
of eyes, of Robin, of my mother’s
voice as I tried to choose a dress
for my first prom, of my son,
of my daughter, laughter,
wine glasses gone wild
and filled full with
water, of
paper
squares
folded
into these
tiny ornate
surprising jewel-tone
structures, of first dates, and
last dates, of first dates that are
also last dates, of safety, risk,
of being broken open like birth
breaks open the heart, of breaking like
an egg, like a dry stick, of broken things,
of lost things, of going on living,
of labor, death, of things I love
to remember and am so
afraid I’m forgetting,
of things I want to
forget and am
afraid to
call to
mind,
silence
of the blue
egg now empty,
cheeping of hungry
young birds, of the farmer’s
eggs at market, the scattered
wisps and threads of blue reflections
in certain nebulas, of cirrus
clouds, of fairy dust scattered in midair,
of fairy beads shimmering cheaply
on my wrist, of the glowing teal
stone for which I carved a bone
and cast a puddle of
molten silver like
a spell, of beach glass
broken and then
polished smooth
and soft,
yes,
of lips
and mouths as
soft and cool as
beach glass, of dancing
wild as drag queens under
a summer afternoon sky,
of stained glass windows spilling light
over a casket, a rosary
(of sorrow, of joy), of hallows that are
a whisper of white barely contained
inside a curve, of floating with
flower petals on the air,
the way wind tangles hair
and blows it into
my mouth, the way
violets
beg for
sweet,
the way
columbine
makes fists of blue
bruises and unfurls,
of mornings, of something
so beautiful I only
imagine it touching my hand
hollow over hollow and filled with hope

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On Aurality

The buzz bang clatter shatter whooshing rush
of restaurant chatter. I just smile and nod.
This is not an aura, but a shockwave
pulsing against my skin with each heartbeat,
an auditory strobe staccato sheet
of porcupine pins flying in close shave
formation, grinding at 300 baud.
I practice reverse hedgehog position
as if it’s some kind of yoga. Deep breath.
Focus on the edge of the plate as if
it’s someone else’s navel. Resonance
means dialing down the grins and arrogance
all unintended, but still. My phasic
reflex stutters vibrational, compressed.

On Almost Falling

Orbiting at the edge of warmth, the sensation
of almost falling that lends a sense of sweet grace
and sweeter gracefulness, teetering and tossing
up one hand, one arm that balances and falters,
then finds its way to rest as if upon altars
or some other sacred space, the curves crisscrossing
as they define the shape of comfort, a safe space
which nonetheless pivots toward awkward salvation,
a station point, a counterbalance, like shifting
from foot to foot, from eye to eye … a dizziness
that swings and sways from slow waltz to breakdance and back,
that falters familiarly and still strange, and tracks
the lines of largeness sketched in halting drowsiness,
drawn toward perigee before pausing, wistfully.


This uses a sonnet form that I haven’t been able to find anywhere, so I might have made it up. It felt like dancing, and really seemed to suit what I wanted to do with this poem. The form has the rhyming scheme of ABCD DCBA EFG GFE, with twelve syllables per line. I liked how couplets appear in the middle, moving part of the poem, swinging towards and away those pivot points as if they carry tension, instead of resolving it.

I Like to Read Poems (A Double Sonnet)

I like to read poems that hurt like I hurt,
that swell in my throat like sugar, and cut
my tongue like rosehips (red, bitter, and curt),
like black tea carves new landscapes in the mouth.
Poems that don’t fake it, and don’t have to. They
can take it, being chewed up like gristle,
and sometimes you have to put them away
or swallow whole. Standoffish ones, bristle
and glare, part bear, part ice, loping across
a bridge crumbling under their weight, and fate
alone says if the bridge falls or they pass
thru. A brute squad poem, grotesque at the gate,
but gentle as giants, hungry as joys.
I know I can trust these words without choice.

These are the poems picked last in gym, that swim
six inches below the water’s surface.
They slip into my mind like a church hymn,
into my veins like those hypodermics,
with a punch and clench, a spurt and a draw.
They don’t need me to feel sorry for them,
they’re way past that. They’re confident and raw-
boned, monstrosities of difference and numb
to judgment, straddling the lovely worlds
made lovelier with them in it, who don’t fit,
who’ve been broken and reglued, and whose words
are lacquer, the spit and stick, the gold slip
holding things together, brassy and shy.
Oh, just bite me, I snarl, while reading, and cry.

On Being Blue

It may have begun when I was newly pregnant
and the veins swole like rivers in my breasts, darkling
waterways colored something between liberty
blue and muted lavender. Or, adolescent,
my mother wistfully wishing I’d wear more teal
while I insisted on low cut sapphire velvet,
and paid the price, with a pelvis hard as lapis
and knotted as malachite, transformed by each weal
and welt. Maybe it began when, as a babe, pink
was assigned as my color, which I resented
daily for years, at last blooming into splendid
peacock, space cadet and fluorescent, periwink-
le and ice, rarely ultramarine, mostly blue
moon. I don’t even know when I became taboo.

On Being Sick, Again

Sickness scrapes the words from my brain, right as rain, except not.
I ask my son to write this down because I can’t hold words
in my mind long enough to make a fist they won’t leak through.
It’s sand. That’s what I meant. Hold on tight and then it’s all gone.
That’s what the words do. Shift and sift and flow, tie in a bow,
oh heck, I don’t know, I don’t want to know, I want to sleep.
There, let’s make a new rhyme, pretty patterns for all the words
that want to dress up in frilly outfits with lace and flowers
for the April showers that chill me to the bone, that hone
the fever like a sharp chicken bone, cutting through the sweats
that stick skin to skin like “Hello, my name is [blank]” labels
glued to my front with muck and gunk of all unpleasant sorts.
It’s fine. I’m not hungry. I don’t want more eggs. And I’m not
acting like a child. I’m too tired to think of better words.

On the Resurrection of the Body

Is this the body in which I want to live forever?
Which iteration of this body? Maiden, mother, crone?
Today is the day when father and son change place, sever
the ties that bind them, and then, from atoms of loss and lone,
hone something different as a connection, full of charges
electric and eternal, maybe. Is this the body
in which they want to live forever? Healthy or sick, large
or small? There must have been a mistake. May have been, shoddy
details, someone to shame. But there is no one we can blame.
Winds whipped the flames higher, sucked oxygen out of the air,
out of the flesh. It wasn’t graceful, gentle, at all tame.
It was a dramatic, terrifying, memory to bear.
Is that the body in which I want anyone I love
to live forever? Let us change, and change, to live above.