Saturday, September 24, 2011

Friday, September 23, 2011

Angela Carter

"We do not go to bed in single pairs; even if we choose not to refer to them, we still drag there with us the cultural impedimenta of our social class, our parents lives, our bank balances, our sexual and emotional expectations, our whole biographies/all the bits and pieces of our unique existences."

Monday, September 19, 2011

Dear Chris
I hope you are not scared, were not scared. I hope someone held your hand and that you saw love in the eyes of the people standing around you. I hope you didn't feel pain or panic or fear and that if you didn't have time to feel closure that at least you had time to feel kindness. Because you were always kind. You asked me how I was on days I wasn't okay and you really meant it, you really wanted to know and you cared. You encouraged me to keep running. You suggested some exercises for my back. You emailed me when I came into the gym with my son and you said, "You're doing a great job with him. It reminds me of me and my mom at that age." This meant to much to me. Also how you gave him a little hand shake lesson. You didn't speak about it that much but I know you had gone through a lot with doctors and surgery and your leg. That you were pretty happy with your life but maybe a little lonely. 44 is so young and you deserved to have lots of love, you deserved to have friends and loved ones around you, especially in that moment when breathing was so hard and then impossible. Talk to us, okay, Chris? Tell us what you are feeling, experiencing, how you are doing, what you need. Some of us can hear you and all of us can feel you, even if it just in a song lyric or a baseball pitch or the smell of fall's arrival on the gray air. We miss you and we are also here for you, like you were there for us.

Saturday, September 17, 2011

The Other One

Death numbs and disorganizes me
But the other is a motherfucker no matter how you look at it

Death can be kind and writes poetry
With his long white fingers
He says, “I must take her to the parlor.” He is polite
While the other eats blood in gobs, mouthfuls of tissues disintegrates and erodes sucks and belches burps and laughs with a mouth like a fat fish

Death took my mother for a walk in the garden
She wore pink cotton pajamas and held his arm
There were lanterns made of rice paper
The tress were hung with cow bells
Somewhere someone was singing

The other one lay curled in my mother’s belly trying to make her his puppet
She refused
Bargained cordially with Death
Who bowed his head and nodded
Then walked off whistling softly
the winner with a petal in his tailcoat pocket

Monday, September 5, 2011

My own private arrowhead

I think of arrowheads of obsidian found in the earth polished and rough-hewn able to kill or simply to rub between thumb and forefinger as a reminder of how not to hurt oneself
I think of gods with wings rustling on the windowsill
In the still of night
Never look at them in bright light
Never speak too much when they are here
Be silent, reverential
they can crush your heart in their fist
or not

I think of longing limitless that frightened away too many men
Or caused me to send them off with the thorns of roses tracing blood from their skin
And cracked music and unused condoms

I wear a rubber band around my wrist by daylight
To snap myself out of mistrust

Psyche’s sisters told her he was a monster
And then she burned him with her fear
I refuse this
And it’s not why I light the sage in your presence

I have done Aphrodite’s many tasks
Again and again
Until half blinded and motherless I believe I am without fortitude
This is not the case
My house is still here
my kitchen full of empty jars for sorting beans and grains
Under the sink are paper cups to rescue spiders
I am vigilant for burns and bites and cuts and scrapes and breaks and fires and stings (though I can’t see the wasp’s venom)
Always listening for my children in the night

When they are not here sometimes you come
Sharp as an ancient weapon
Fine and dangerous as Eros, listen
My light’s to illumine not to burn
I’m done with that I’m done