for Erica, March 2015

I counted Mexican Paintbrush petals
in your mother’s garden
where we dropped our bikes every
summer morning, preparing
our packs for the day’s ride
or swim, mapping the summer

I thought about what you said
the night before,–how you planned
to escape someday, how you
needed something real
and I felt naïve in my
cut-off jeans and chucks,
I felt like I’d never be that brave
because I didn’t know
what it is I could escape—
how different life was
supposed to be

you weren’t afraid of the world
I felt so swallowed up in

we rode out of town, into the country
stopping in forests
to run our hands through
the moss grass beneath the needles;
we found Continue reading

It is a sunny afternoon, the light

coming in yellow through her curtains

that cut through the smoke.

Cat Stevens feels like water inside my soul

and then she switches it to Bread

and hands me a dust rag.

I dance across the green and brown

carpet squares; I wipe the hazy walls, the stiff

yellow furniture with the green and gold flowers;

speakers as tall as I am:

it is 1984 and I am my mama’s bumble bee

 

She is young and beautiful;

this is the age I wanted to be her–chain-smoking Dorals

and sipping black coffee, no men for us, no fathers, no drunks
She tells me to get dirty but stay in the yard as she

folds freshly washed laundry from the Good Will.

I see her always moving, and I was a part of that motion,

that current,

that music like water.

I used to find my gravity in her eyes
Not this woman

 

with

this stare,

this woman

 

who wrings

her hands

and tells me
“Amy if there was a gun, I’d do it”

 

tears roll down the lines
of her tired face
weeping for the men that
changed us. Changed us all.

 

At thirty, I am across the table in my secret desperation

I hear the invasion of The Guess Who singing,

my favorite, “Undun” Continue reading

It was my third year in college when I first heard the term string theory.
I remember moving forward into
what he’d say next, and as the professor
strolled over quantum physics and how
this theory could explain
all the forces of nature—
what it could reveal, the dark mysteries
it could possess—
I know that I felt the spindles in my irises unraveling
like a sketched star in reverse, and that
it connected to words in my brain, and then
to the angles in my fingers, the shoots in my nervous system

bodies in cubic space and time, specks in the ether,
strung together, moving each other,
causing and effecting
And all of this happened not out of belief
but from the simplicity of proofs.
I pictured the chemistry in my brain spark,
and that these strings moved around, refracting
and bending the way I did against my
faulty wiring.
My amygdala had a pulse.

—perhaps
it was my first touch with existentialism.
Or perhaps it was my first touch with faith.
But I lost the comfort of a small
ignorance and I was exposed,
and all at once, in the back of the room
at my desk, I pictured, in the span of a thread,

Illness.
repelling me, twisting and corrupt and
in sync–out of alignment, changing rhythm,
the defection streamlining down to
me like a shared, infected vein

and I think
that was when I first stepped away Continue reading

The journal at my bedside.
I stare at the white winter light
coming though the double-paned glass
and crystal dust drifts in empty air.
The nurse comes in
her alcohol and starched scrubs
tells me to shower.
Pills come in paper cups
Paper ornaments on the
Christmas tree so we can’t harm ourselves.

The journal at my bedside
paper pages, dull and soft with wear–
I’ve had this journal for fifteen years now–

here as a reminder that I was someone. Continue reading

Originally posted on :

While doing the reading for Week 4, something became clear to me. This was all going way over my head. Carl Jung had some heavy theories about Creativity and the psyche, injected with concepts about the imagination and the human consciousness. Some additional research would be needed to fully understand Jung’s intricate models of the psyche. What I found particularly interesting was Jung’s theory on the human unconscious.

Carl Jung was a Freudian Analysis, and actually worked closely with Freud. They significantly influenced each other’s theories about the human psyche. In particular they agreed that all aspects of the human unconscious is seeking its way to the surface to become known and become conscious. However, their views began to differentiate, as Jung believed that the rising of the unconscious was a vital part to the process of individuation and self-growth. Freud opposed this, saying that this rising of the unconscious…

View original 407 more words

EB-125

I think I’m seeing white birds

white birds scattering away

from my window, out there

in the cold January, their wings

sound, from here, like sheets–

my grandmother’s white sheets–

on the line in June.
The light coming in is white.

Color? Or space?

Like the space we can never fill.

Like the start of a narrative.

Like the blank walls,

these hospital rooms cemented

in their smoggy halo.
I’m crouched over a puce tray,

surrounded by the others in halogens, others

that have found strange caverns to fill in

strange tongues native to disorder, asking me Continue reading

I have lost the need to be someone.
It’s strange that when
You have one piece left of so many selves
And it breaks, shattering your familiar
reflection, You–annihilated in the howling–
and a certain amount of time
will stop mattering as it goes on, and
You pool into something–a fine new liquid–
black beneath the swollen moon,
and then, a tender solid thing.
An awakened body and mind
Cast about in the water’s mad rush,
not afraid of its depth anymore.
A woman now. And a fire stirs–a heat
I’ve never heard of.
No one ever told me I would rise to
occasions On my own accord.
No one ever told me the soul
Is a hungry, insatiable thing
That pulses so right Once
the wounds and lesions Turn to scars.
I am thirsty. I am watching. I am waiting
Continue reading

Share your poetry and creativity over at Dverse Poets Pub.  I am basing my poem off of a drawing I’ve been working on.

Stitches

You’re in my ribcage
I turn my love to wreck it
let you gather up the pieces
and I watch you fall
from my fists
where I held you
hard and close because
what is the difference
anyway
between madness
and hunger

I want you to
walk up and bite me
stick your words inside me10819066_10155197448905131_881853597_n
and twist them all around
cover up my mouth
make my mind unable
to find my will
Continue reading

STITCHING

You’re in my ribcage
I turn my love to wreck it all
you try to gather up the pieces
and I watch you fall
from my fists
where I held you
hard and close because
what is the difference anyway
between madness
and hunger

I want you to
walk up and bite me
stick your words inside me
and twist them all around
cover up my mouth
make my mind unable
to find my will

I come in like a whirlwind
and you are mine to destroy,
no not you, just love
or the thought of love
or the thought of you
or the heart in my chest
so I can rupture up my body
and never give you room

but I open up my chest
and violets fly out
and I had a dream
you were walking by,
my dark lover,
not seeing me
and I feel for the first
time the things I let myself lose,
all the time,
and I close.

Amy Jo Sprague:

my dear dear friend put my poem up on her fabulous blog–i heel honored!

Originally posted on Shut Up, Shani!:

The pop and snap of prescription pill bottles,
swallow, light, inhale, scrape of the chair,
cluster of tap-tap-taps on the keys, a silence
beyond this room, beyond this wall
I can almost hear you—the soil
sifting, seeds spreading out, dry in your palm;
folds of light robes around you like
birds wings—your child
asleep on your warm back,
your sky a sea, an earth, a breath
because you’re there I’m less anxious
(as I palm another pill) because I rely
on sedated time I sit in my chair,
lost somewhere before the border,
where I see myself later—aged and wearing away—
walking to you, palms up–

“Here, here I am…” only you aren’t waiting
for me, time is something else to you—
so I see I don’t have to tell you
where I’ve been or why I am here
but that I’ve arrived
out of the cement tomb,
the rise…

View original 134 more words