Each light she touches turns to blue: turquoise,
iris, steel, sky. She glows with blue, haloed
with color against the night, fingers poised
and playing fusion of jazz and shadow
on piano keys transparent as glass, ice.
Each note is a chime past human hearing,
and the measure to which she dances flies
through interstellar space, disappearing
into dust and memories, then spinning
back to life not as lost as we believed,
in the end become in the beginning,
a change of time, a change of place, she breathes
and sings, half clarinet and half cello,
the blues whirling inside her, still indigo.
Diva and I had planned to have dinner tonight,
but we aren’t. We are sitting beside each other
at a white plastic table on white plastic chairs
wishing for water. She is the color, and I
am the quiet, even though we both draped rainbows
around ourselves (hers a feather boa and mine
a sarong gone wrong right around my neck),
even though neither of us has get-up-and-go
enough to talk. We text. She sends me Poké gifts,
and I say thank you. She says for what, and I flash
my phone so she can see we’re both in the same app.
We roll our eyes at the same time. We drip. We drift.
We cheered the drag queens, hot sun on glitter and sequins.
Drag queens still dance, music pounds, but us? We are done.
Sonnet form: Bowlesian
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.
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 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.
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.
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.