Tuesday, November 29, 2005
Saturday, November 26, 2005
Under the Surface
It's not a question of identity--
the daffodils are blooming already.
It's a question of visibility,
the outward face of petals speading open,
the fluted throat of the stamen relinquishing a voice.
Spring always returns and with it
the bulbs burst into green stalks
enticed from the soil by light
as each spring my depression lifts.
It's not a question of identity, really,
but being asked to mingle at parties,
read my poems to audiences.
It's about the red that pulses through my skin
leaving blotches on my chest and neck.
Little girls point at flowers
and talk of the pretty colors. Perhaps
I'm not ready for this.
Often, I wish to stay the bulb
with hairy, peeling skin in the garden bed
where I am cool and hidden just under the surface
resisting the slight tease of sunlight
calling me out.
(Flesh and Air, poetry manuscript, 2003)
Friday, November 25, 2005
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
I hoard mirrors, sun lamps, shiny stones,
gold-threaded scarves and colored glass
that reverberates light. These things are not enough.
If I could capture light--the kind that warms
my bones--I would rub it into my skin. I would lace
each eye with it. I would place it in my beak
and crush it till it bursts.
For the complete poem, visit The Licton Springs Review
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
Monday, November 21, 2005
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
Monday, November 14, 2005
No need to compare anymore. Don't pretend
to love my Girl Scout craft day and talk
of matching dishes at bridal showers. I know you,
like me, would rather sit in the corner petting the dog.
I have never wanted this: your limbs attached
to strings, bent like sad stalks,
controlled like a puppet as I first noticed at four
when I swiped my hand over your head
checking for strings, when the expression
of false happiness hung from your cheeks
and I asked, "Where is my real mommy?"
from "The Puppet"
Friday, November 11, 2005
I am ten, watching my father
prick his finger with a lancet.
The blood on the tip of a white
testing strip forms a crown, a bubble,
and balances there like a jewel
developing slowly like a Polaroid,
the red turning dark as rust. I stare
to find the picture in it, wonder what face
might emerge from the stain, the secret
message meant only for me, but he wipes
it clean and a light hue of blue appears.
I witness magic--his blood
turns the color of sky--and then
I feel it: this has nothing to do with me.
My father is human, fragile even, the blood
coursing through him a spectrum of blue.