I am trying to write a letter to my body, or perhaps it will be an ode. I will serenade it with words like soft, womanly, and beautiful; blocking out my self-doubts and distrusts. I will not look in the mirror to write this poem, instead I will use instinct and freedom. With a womanly chest and childbearing hips, my body supports me. In the bedroom it brings me pleasure, in writing it brings me ideas. In life, however, it brings me fears and insecurities.
Ekphrastic poem (no really it’s ekphrastic I swear):
Nocturne (The General Motors Building at Columbus Circle)
anyways, i was walking down Ashby at two in the morning — y’know, by MacBeath Hardwood where the big bear carving used to be but they took it down and i thought how funny it was to call yourself indifferent after biting me so hard i almost cried then rubbing over that spot with the gentle pad of your finger to soothe the pain before filling in your teeth marks with black Sharpie so it stuck. you said get it tattooed you said. the thing is i would’ve done it too and thank God i didn’t because why would anyone walk down Ashby at two in the morning if it weren’t for someone calling themselves indifferent to your existence.
i’d like to think it
isn’t possible to be indifferent.
for example i wish i
was indifferent to the
removal of the
bear carving outside MacBeath
Hardwood but really
it hurts my feelings.
years ago when Amelia and I
wanted a lemonade
stand
we waited in the
dark blue 2008 Toyota Prius
for my dad to
get a wood pallet for our sign
and
the more i think about it
the bear is my father
and the pallet is us
Haha get it because
we are rotting somewhere.
so i’m walking here
thinking about stalagmites and moon rocks
and how i always
wanted to eat one
and so i pick up
a weed covered rock
from the alleyway and
i bite
into it and unsurprisingly
it tastes like rock
and splinters a little
between my teeth.
above me there’s a
telephone wire &
a phallic kind of statue in the square
and i think about
climbing it and
impaling myself through
the pointed top
cause i think it would be a funny joke.
people would look at you
and back at my impaled-ness
and call you Judas
because you kissed me and now
i’m dead,
Haha do you get it??
the one thing i’m not sure about is
that Ashby’s pretty dead
right about now
though the liquor store that
has bullet proof & bullet laden
windows
is still open if that counts.
cause Ashby’s pretty dead right now
that means i’d have to
stay up there impaled for
quite a bit before
someone found me
and that honestly seems
like a lot of effort.
plus there’s a synagogue
a few streets that way —>
and what kind of
asshole would i be
making people find my dead body
on their way to morning services?
Anyways i guess
the point is that
the air i breathe is sorta
silver right now
and i’m all alone
cause they took away the
bear carving.
the point is that you can’t
see your own skin
in the
blue night
so even if it was still there
i couldn’t tell
where you had bitten me
and i’m lying right now,
it was on my left forearm,
right above where
the vein tapers off,
southeast of my
left forearm’s
solitary freckle.
the thing i don’t remember i guess is
everything else.
like i don’t remember
the smell of our
dark blue 2008 Toyota Prius for example.
all i know are
these iron buildings and
pavement rocks under my tongue.
On 3rd street in
Captain, New Mexico,
there is a church as
tiny as a home,
and a girl stands on the doorstep, shaking.
Any girl shaking, as we know,
should be concealed by her home,
not in front of a church in
Captain, New Mexico,
on 3rd street.
But only 3rd street
in Captain, New Mexico,
holds this church that she needs,
only it’s yellow, sharp walls, like her old home
whose foundations shook so hard it
forgot how to shake to the beat of a drum
trapped in this word called “home”,
trapped in church on Sunday all Sunday,
trapped in Captain, New Mexico
on 3rd street and it can’t get out.
Yet on 3rd street,
in Captain, New Mexico,
the home is the church
and the church is the home and
I walk away, shaking.
Get out
Of bed, pull on
the skinniest top,
Ignore the hunger,
Paint my face,
Lips are glossed,
Think
About what they will all see,
Straighten
The hair
Shove on
The tallest heels
Don’t eat
You called on Monday to tell me that you spent Easter alone, again.
It was my fault, you said.
But last time you said, “At least I have knees.”
On Thanksgiving it was, “If you keep letting yourself go, he’ll leave you.”
At Christmas when you called family services
out of love and concern that
I’d become too fat to be a good mother,
you drew the line.
It’s not my fault you’re alone.
You drew the line,
but I broke the cycle.
7 responses to “Form Poems (Weds)”
To my body
I am trying to write a letter to my body, or perhaps it will be an ode. I will serenade it with words like soft, womanly, and beautiful; blocking out my self-doubts and distrusts. I will not look in the mirror to write this poem, instead I will use instinct and freedom. With a womanly chest and childbearing hips, my body supports me. In the bedroom it brings me pleasure, in writing it brings me ideas. In life, however, it brings me fears and insecurities.
Ekphrastic poem (no really it’s ekphrastic I swear):
Nocturne (The General Motors Building at Columbus Circle)
anyways, i was walking down Ashby at two in the morning — y’know, by MacBeath Hardwood where the big bear carving used to be but they took it down and i thought how funny it was to call yourself indifferent after biting me so hard i almost cried then rubbing over that spot with the gentle pad of your finger to soothe the pain before filling in your teeth marks with black Sharpie so it stuck. you said get it tattooed you said. the thing is i would’ve done it too and thank God i didn’t because why would anyone walk down Ashby at two in the morning if it weren’t for someone calling themselves indifferent to your existence.
i’d like to think it
isn’t possible to be indifferent.
for example i wish i
was indifferent to the
removal of the
bear carving outside MacBeath
Hardwood but really
it hurts my feelings.
years ago when Amelia and I
wanted a lemonade
stand
we waited in the
dark blue 2008 Toyota Prius
for my dad to
get a wood pallet for our sign
and
the more i think about it
the bear is my father
and the pallet is us
Haha get it because
we are rotting somewhere.
so i’m walking here
thinking about stalagmites and moon rocks
and how i always
wanted to eat one
and so i pick up
a weed covered rock
from the alleyway and
i bite
into it and unsurprisingly
it tastes like rock
and splinters a little
between my teeth.
above me there’s a
telephone wire &
a phallic kind of statue in the square
and i think about
climbing it and
impaling myself through
the pointed top
cause i think it would be a funny joke.
people would look at you
and back at my impaled-ness
and call you Judas
because you kissed me and now
i’m dead,
Haha do you get it??
the one thing i’m not sure about is
that Ashby’s pretty dead
right about now
though the liquor store that
has bullet proof & bullet laden
windows
is still open if that counts.
cause Ashby’s pretty dead right now
that means i’d have to
stay up there impaled for
quite a bit before
someone found me
and that honestly seems
like a lot of effort.
plus there’s a synagogue
a few streets that way —>
and what kind of
asshole would i be
making people find my dead body
on their way to morning services?
Anyways i guess
the point is that
the air i breathe is sorta
silver right now
and i’m all alone
cause they took away the
bear carving.
the point is that you can’t
see your own skin
in the
blue night
so even if it was still there
i couldn’t tell
where you had bitten me
and i’m lying right now,
it was on my left forearm,
right above where
the vein tapers off,
southeast of my
left forearm’s
solitary freckle.
the thing i don’t remember i guess is
everything else.
like i don’t remember
the smell of our
dark blue 2008 Toyota Prius for example.
all i know are
these iron buildings and
pavement rocks under my tongue.
not you.
I’m indifferent to you.
form poem: sestina
On 3rd street in
Captain, New Mexico,
there is a church as
tiny as a home,
and a girl stands on the doorstep, shaking.
Any girl shaking, as we know,
should be concealed by her home,
not in front of a church in
Captain, New Mexico,
on 3rd street.
But only 3rd street
in Captain, New Mexico,
holds this church that she needs,
only it’s yellow, sharp walls, like her old home
whose foundations shook so hard it
forgot how to shake to the beat of a drum
trapped in this word called “home”,
trapped in church on Sunday all Sunday,
trapped in Captain, New Mexico
on 3rd street and it can’t get out.
Yet on 3rd street,
in Captain, New Mexico,
the home is the church
and the church is the home and
I walk away, shaking.
Form poem: Pantoum
I think I cry,
My mom says I do,
“A pail to fill your tears” she says,
But she doesn’t cry at all.
I think she screams
From stress or overwhelm.
But she doesn’t cry at all.
Even when the whole world hears her.
I think she cries
but doesn’t want to show
Even when the whole world hears her.
She pretends not to know.
Get out
Of bed, pull on
the skinniest top,
Ignore the hunger,
Paint my face,
Lips are glossed,
Think
About what they will all see,
Straighten
The hair
Shove on
The tallest heels
Don’t eat
Pantoum: Passing of time between me and you
Living in a constant fever dream
Dancing in the rain
Blurred like a flashback movie scene
Nights that have been long forgotten
Dancing in the rain
Washing all of you down the drain
Nights that have been long forgotten
I wish I wouldn’t have to stay
Washing all of you down the drain
Deliciously dreadful nights in other worlds
I wish I wouldn’t have to stay
Moments pester running time
Dear Mother
You called on Monday to tell me that you spent Easter alone, again.
It was my fault, you said.
But last time you said, “At least I have knees.”
On Thanksgiving it was, “If you keep letting yourself go, he’ll leave you.”
At Christmas when you called family services
out of love and concern that
I’d become too fat to be a good mother,
you drew the line.
It’s not my fault you’re alone.
You drew the line,
but I broke the cycle.