Monday, October 24, 2016
Our Bodies, Our Selves: For the Daughters of Eve [a poem]
Our Bodies, Our Selves: For the Daughters of Eve
This one’s bowels scream, “Stop telling me I’m broken!”
While another’s heart says, “I do not feel safe here inside this hummingbird chest.”
This one’s got her fist in her throat
Where his was
Coming up and out with the windpipe
Playing that slender flute for the first time in a long time
She’s pulled the voicebox, too
Her sister opens it, turns the tiny rusted crank
We hear the pink ballerina of her tongue dancing free
Listening to this, to the wail song, to the conjugated sob
We un-lay bricks from another one’s shoulders
And watch as her wing spread spans so many stories
This one doesn’t tolerate stitches, so, fingers woven
We suture her incision with the needle of not-knowing and
String made from our own guts
This one lays her hands where that one’s son once nested
Before he swept out and into a current he couldn’t control
She pulls the red thread that says
“Don’t hold it in, or it will break you.”
Alice really went through it, didn’t she?
The glass, I mean.
But she gave us the shards and the splinters for
diamond rings, sweet tokens.
Such shiny things. We are not broken.
Monday, October 17, 2016
With the Guillotine Down & The Body, A Prayer: On Recovery [two poems]
With the Guillotine Down
I am a broken-headed woman, holding heartache in my hands.
I am not trying to be pretty.
What use is mascara with the guillotine down?
I am not the story they have made of me
I am not the story they have made of me
From the small slice
They got off their blade:
Whore.
Selfish.
Ungrateful.
Fake.
Stupid.
Not enough.
Too much.
I can write different words.
They got off their blade:
Whore.
Selfish.
Ungrateful.
Fake.
Stupid.
Not enough.
Too much.
I can write different words.
Tell myself new stories until
I believe them.
The Body, a Prayer
I am an exquisitely patterned daughter of loss.
I try not to stir my coffee too fast.
I try not to shush the chattering women.
Hear them as birds about their business.
Let the bee sit on my ring.
Let my morning become our morning.
I do not know what happens next.
We all need to pray.
And we all have different ways.
I pray by my borrowed bed:
May I meet the moment without seeking to over determine it.
May I sink into the center of this swelling broken and be healed.
The Body, a Prayer
I am an exquisitely patterned daughter of loss.
I try not to stir my coffee too fast.
I try not to shush the chattering women.
Hear them as birds about their business.
Let the bee sit on my ring.
Let my morning become our morning.
I do not know what happens next.
We all need to pray.
And we all have different ways.
I pray by my borrowed bed:
May I meet the moment without seeking to over determine it.
May I sink into the center of this swelling broken and be healed.
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