In this there is a clue.
Watch. Watch.
See how the bindweeds cling,
their blue trumpets
spiraled closed,
waiting for the daylight
of the next world.
I pull the petals
from my mouth.
I am I am I am.
See. I am silent.
I am rattlesnake. I am still.
The glass is emptied.
The vine groans its silence.
There is light.
Shadow light.
I am still. I dance
like burning glass.
I am rattlesnake.
Two women fill me.
Two women
sharing a cut tongue.
Practicing Patience
This song has really been getting me through lately. I like how it helps me to practice patience. When I’ve been down it has reminded me to rest in the sadness, but not dwell in it. Even through some tears, it has made me laugh at my own self-centeredness. And when I’ve been feeling joyous it has added to that joy by getting me up and dancing and singing it at pretty high decibels.
Housekeeping
She thought there would be space–an hour here, an hour there–someplace to put the things, the words, the blankets that belonged to her. She tries to greet the mornings with pleasant indifference, but still all that comes is the burning anger of slammed kitchen cabinets, broken light bulbs, and more and more maple oatmeal down the garbage disposal, all diluted among the milk, the thrown away mashed peas and carrots from the burning night before, the soured orange juice, and the grit of wasted coffee grounds. What a mess she makes.
When the cries come, something falls in her throat. It is her voice pushing its way closer to the center of her. Some words are rooted in love. Some words are stolen. Some words are trapped in her. At least this way she does not scream. She cannot. She is, as they all know, quiet. She does not lift herself from the floor. She cannot. The crumbs fester on the counter like all the specks of leftover ground beef that cover the stove like all the dead cockroaches under the dishwasher. The putty knife could not scrape them away. They are thick, and layer upon layer, immovable.
Gallery
This is Weekend
This gallery contains 12 photos.
To salvage the tiniest shred of mental health that we had left we finally escaped to the District for the weekend. The scent of concrete, rusty water, and track dust that rushes up warmly, curling its way along the path of Metro escalators, is the only air I need to breathe. Then I am home. […]
If Only
If only we could see and know and feel all the angst and fury going on inside all those little boxes. If only we could harness it.
Bring it out into the open. If only we would speak it. Voice it.
Scream it. If only we could take it apart, destroy it,
and drop it in tiny pieces in the public square
and proclaim our freedom from it forever.
Dear Suburbia 