At my window,
In my mind,
extraordinary sexual and living acts
Demonstrated in dark colors.
Then a great red bang.
The scales of the grain feed
Sway with an unconscionable math.
After the man’s house grows rats
to provide epidemics,
One will advise you at home while you die –
Grateful to be out of the hail of the heat.
May my tongue be holy,
And my will be broken.
Fields shy away from me.
The city has offers me up,
In my other language my dream
the barbed wire fence beyond,
So many cutters cutting cutely.
My soul struggles
In scorching liquid glass.
His thumb print is the moon.
In His blessings,
designs of snow,
promises rare and sweet.
I’m free of rain.
I show my picture to the blank mirror.
I was not busy in my shiny days
and now I see
clouds of apologies ahead,
My shape shifting selfishness
Folded into a skin box,
My life was born for a while,
between sameness and joy.
Ten times I memorize myself,
I have to light,
To guide kaleidoscope perception
Back home to me.
Interdependence is difficult and soft,
The next day I stay
In another land a woman
Locks a book in her heart chest.
I recreate blue with my face,
And the thermometer crusts with ice
As the heat peels away from my skin.
I’ll tell you what to do.
Bury the sewing kit
And all the afghans.
Lay your knitting needles in a raft,
Set it ablaze in the neighborhood duck pond.
Let other women gawk with scorn.
These women are not your neighbors.
Sweeping the breath away from you,
Leather handbags stuffed with original creature.
I will be wakeful, watchful,
Unable to create the heat I need
To close my eyes.
Will you rededicate your life to sleep?
Today is the first day of the goal I set yesterday – to write my poetry every day. I have not yet written anything new, although I am revising some poetry I have already written.
For some reason, I am afraid to dive in. My mind is sort of ducking in and out of my emotions like a rock skipping over water. If I dive too deeply, I may not come up.
On some level, I’m afraid of my mind. I don’t write confessional poetry, so it is not as though I’ll be diving into personal problems and emotions in a direct way if I begin writing a poem. But I get into this space, this cold silky space, when I write and sometimes I just slide deeper and deeper into solitude once I start. This can feel rejuvenating, but I am on the border mentally right now and if I slide too far below the water I don’t know what will be waiting for me there.
I have to push forward. I’ve set a goal, and that goal must be accomplished. I can’t just give up, especially on the first day. It might be cold, but I need to sink down and scrape the images from the coral crusted bed of my head.