Sunday, December 21, 2008


Emily! Sylvia! Save me from this torment. 
You have made it into art that I allow
myself to sleep the days away, rocking
in a chair and thinking deeply about

A stack of cards sits beside me, unsent
to my females that came before, sleeping
pills and wild nights, a funeral pyre in the oven, both ill-requited
loves(d); with ink and pen they wrote themselves into existence.  

1 comment:

taylor said...

(on sylvia)

I should tell you about disappearing

I should tell my face it longs to melt

into a puddle

to watch a leg

to feel the footprints and splash

unnoticed spots onto a suit

cling to the legs of a man

(there is something precious leaking from the finger vents)

I should tell you how I have forgotten
how breath can be breath and not
such a blue in my lips

how I need to breathe
to vomit
need to cut
this lump from my throat
all made of pulp and glue

a bit of ink to bloody my chin and

how I can only cough waste at you

I am (nude as Cleopatra) I

trade invisibility

for metered misery

foot for a shoe

I am black as burnt meat

I am cooked through for you

my confessional is an oven

and penance

this skull baking for you

hair smoldering into

the bitter plum

a sunken cheek

frame of a face

a snake's neck, pulsing

muscles used to turn, to speak

seep through thin metal bars

and (skin doesn’t have roots)

the marrow

(it peels away easy as paper)

the left over milk
I leave my children
milk of bones
toast to sop up the stomachs

of two children still

dredging silt from my throat

a husband still writing

a poem

a handful of notes

about the once agile body

now nude and stiffened:

about a deer before a train,


and the amount of darkness

two circles of light can swallow.