Tag: writing

A Rush

I am looking for trouble,
And I find it on a beach.
Trouble looms large and covers my breasts.
Crabs make their home in the sand.
I make mine at the sea and he holds me back.
I wanted to be my own deckhand until I decided to find trouble.
He removes my feet and I wanted nothing to do with it,
Stranded away from the ocean and his challenging eye.
Why did I need to get a rush while I waited at the dock?
His hands are like urchins,
And I want to swab every part of me clean.

Green

In the morning there was green,
A cool, whispering green infecting the spruce and air.

Within the covetous morning
They harbor the dark –
The spruce and air in collaboration with
More green than I can understand.

My sight is green like the stem of a flower
Used to promote something more interesting.

Green is what I see alone in the canals
That swerve my needs.

Yet I dislike al l but the brightest, loudest of greens
Because they remind me of my perfect noon.

10 Ways to See White

10 ways to see White

  1. I wore cream to my wedding. I never married before. Cream was left, somehow still accurate.
  2. The hall was so white I couldn’t see the iris. Snowy observer of my body thrown across the hall and through the rickety closet doors like a jacket in July.
  3. All records are clean before the incoming rain of experience.
  4. Curious cloud looking like a light at my legs bared on the beach.
  5. The tissue paper around the gift no one wrapped.
  6. The daisy I hunted for 23 years.
  7. Snow at the ski resort broken and used. I’ve got my skis.
  8. And the unreal white bones in my legs holding their breath before the trees.
  9. The moon over my body as I wait for the Reaper.
  10. My breath in the cold. Stopped like a song.

Small

Peppermint legs
Cool with the giant stripe of red legging.
She stands in her podium of potatoes
And sings Christmas carols to her children
Who hear their mother singing but don’t hear what she says.

Glasses make little things look bigger,
So finish your beer and peer into your glass.

This – candy holiday mother and spiced potatoes and unacknowledged songs
Will fade and they will wonder what they wanted to hear
And if she said it.

WIP 9th Letter

The yellow letter
Number 9
I can’t fathom the more dangerous work.

In my dressing pocket,
It’s a yellow nine.

I get my pancakes with extra syrup
When my husband makes breakfast.

I understand the shape of my body.
It is large and unrestricted.
And to come upon desire
With a desire for hidden light
Is to make lemonade in sum.

Daffodil,
Cream,
Egg yolk,
1980s hotpants
All 9 of my colors are yellow.

Taking emotional plans,
Airplanes,
And you’ve gone over the edge with my name.

One book is very simple,
Don’t take 90 years to decide.

Claws and Colors

Shivering yelps race to the edge of audible.

There are always claws on our edges,

Steering us away from the yelling
The time spent idling in swimming pools judging extra colors

And into a song on repeat.
Even the acrobats and ballerinas will die in the end.

It was my last gasp
That fluttered across the wind.

They Lie

the thing with Mondays
is –
they lie

that eternal weekend
lives in its shell
at a deeper level of
sea than you’ll ever go-

tethered to the busting
waves by an insipid Monday

There is no compassion
in industry.

you will always be desperate
in the tidal pools,
the diving suit you live in
desperate for elsewhere

Friday,
In his flippers and goggles
Does not exist.