The Crime of Womanhood

I am a woman by default.

The priest condemns breasts

as he looks upon a woman’s chest

like a sin he is too pure to commit.

 

And the girl on the street is more beautiful than you will ever be,

she is conditioned to feel.

 

The hot clover breath of a man

twitches into a pool of stress-sweat

at the nape of my neck.

 

Have I asked for this?

 

His voice is soothing, but his teeth

are crooked, mangled in his mouth

 

I no longer have the right to see.

 

We are the done-for, poor

defenseless women.

Limbs flailing, fighting

into the air, which is sticky

burnt brush with yellow tape

The coroner calls us dead.

 

As our souls leave our bodies,

the sweet honey-flesh of us

Is sold to the highest bidder

 

Only to be torn from our bone by our tormentor.

 

But somewhere out there is another universe

Where we are like the felled trees,

each branch wrought with rings

oil-black, stems thick as wrists

 

We have found rest,

a safety where they lay siege to us.

Disappearing Act

Loving you is like bruised knuckles

I reach out, restless,

wary,

waiting,

For you.

 

I hop on the red-eye express

Until I reach the edge of a cliff

I cut the dandelions at their root

and throw them into the abyss

 

Into the emptiness where I long for you.

 

You

who holds the ripe fruit in his hands

So easily crushed, stained

Dripping

Sweet and rotting.

 

The moment your finger reaches my cheek

I am gone.

Erase Me

On the flight I cry

Over a man,

Who doesn’t love me.

 

The tears that flock,

Like needy children

The boldest come first.

 

No warning just…

The engine begins,

The plane’s nose

 

Abandons the earth.

Point upward to face God

Or nothingness.

 

Say love,

I am just afraid

Of heights.

 

Is this your first time flying?

 

I have carried

Too many men

I have mistaken myself for a bowl.

 

Don’t worry dear, it will be over soon.

 

Thursday, April 12

The sun is flushing down a drain of scattered clouds this morning. It resurfaces every few minutes and warms my pale face. I am waiting for your call, but it never comes; and I am wondering if this is all for nothing. The ground is still damp from last night’s shower. A small river runs to the storm drain on my deck, and it feels a bit like winter has spilled into April; angrily, like a bottle kicked onto warm dirt. Everything is wet except for the rusted wire table in front of me, as if purposely inviting me to rest my books upon its surface. I wish you were as inviting. I wonder if loving you is supposed to feel this way, a ball of anxiety tangled in my chest, waiting to burst the second you lay a finger on me.

I am writing early this day, and I think that means I am both sad and inspired. A stereotypical poet, sitting outside cold and damp, waiting for your call, and the sun goes down the drain again.

I Wrote This for You

Your love reappeared at my doorstep

three weeks ago.

 

Like a dog, on its submissive back

spotted belly exposed to my affection.

 

As if I haven’t tasted your name in my mouth

for months, gone stale like old gum.

 

Like I haven’t fought, feverishly, the voices

in my head.

 

Doubling over from the one that howls,

“He’s gone”.

 

Your love reappeared saying,

“I’ll never leave you again”.

 

Like filling the cage of my ribs

with evaporated water.

 

My love, the comedian. My love, the heartbreaker. My love, just a friend.

 

My love, the indecisive.

The Time Traveler

Lake Michigan is a deep slate color and the tide is out

and welcoming the new year feels exhausting tonight.

I have been told how to live a thousand times over;

I can feel the cold dry air in my lungs

feel my heart serenely pounding.

 

I start to jog down the bank

I’m flying now, that golden feeling

Nothing can stop me, nothing

can stop me,

Nothing, nothing, nothing.

 

Why do we make resolutions?

Again we always fail, falling back

on old habits

 

I am home now,

I see myself blurred in the mirror by steam and

time seems to fold over

onto itself

I’ve become invisible

 

It’s only nine o’clock, and the street

is teeming with its usual mix of runaways,

and urban thrill seekers.

 

The world is gray, slowly

color leaks into it

Not rosy-fingered

But like a stain of blood orange

Creeping and golden.