Author: poetryfest

You scream at me, you’re mad
I’m calm
I try to explain
Your Face is red, liquid fills your orbits
You are tired
Later I will be tired too
You’re mad because you shot at me
And I took your weapons
You’re mad because you called me stupid
And I took your games
You scream at me, you’re mad
I try to explain

I can’t quit my chained maiden
Who pliés around the welkin
From stone to stone, and crater
To crater, hypergolic. She spins
And laughs, I swell with love. I call
Her a reminicantagonist, a futurephiliac
But as she always does, she floats
Ahead. Skipping, stone to stone,
Alpheratz towards Canis and his son.
She knows what will come next,
She’s lived it before. This is her
Purgatory. Andromeda and Canis,
Jezebel and Jehu, my women and
The wolves that eat her. Over and
Over she comes to me, a single
Match in her silken palms. She
Runs it against my desiccated elbow
And its flame becomes our north star.
She dances with paleticocity, she will
Love, and yet the dogs always find her:
Analgesiacally, angelisctically painful.

Object permanence: The understanding that objects continue to exist even when they cannot be seen, heard, or otherwise sensed. This is a fundamental concept studied in the field of developmental psychology, the subfield of psychology that addresses the development of young children’s social and mental capacities.

When we are children, we play a game with those we love. They put their hands in front of their face, and we think they are gone forever. When they reappear, we are delighted and laugh at the silliness of thinking they had disappeared. We learn they are right around the corner, just beyond our sight, and they will reappear.

So, what happens when they don’t?

It’s been years, and I still can’t believe I won’t hear her voice again. She must be on the other end of the phone, just beyond the buzz of the line. I can feel her old crow grip on my arm, demanding my full attention. How can it be that she is gone, that I am imagining her? How has time passed so slowly and yet I existed on the same plane as her only yesterday? Where is the veil I can lift?

I feel like I am still a baby, waiting for her to lower her hands and I can laugh with her again.

The suspense is killing me…

Goodbye Will Never Leave My Lips (24)
No matter what, I will never say goodbye
Goodbye is too final.
Rather I prefer until we meet again.
You’ve taught me everything I know
Knowledge more valuable than gold.
The loss of you is the end of my existence
And the continuation of yours
I’ll spend the rest of my life embodying the person you were
I’ll wrestle you from death’s hands
For just one more moment together
Until you could teach me everything I needed to love and live
The only approval I need is yours.
When I finally have to say “Until we meet again”
I will live looking for you in every moment
Live a life worthy of telling you about
Hoping I could be a sliver of the person you are
But never will goodbye leave my lips.

cleaned out your sewing box the other day
in the dark corner
behind the basement stairs
that I’ve been afraid of since I was a child—
the ancient singular pull chain
lightbulb dangling
from the wooden beams, and cobwebs
strung like Christmas
lights across the ceiling,
the box had been sitting there
since you died and no one else wanted it
and Dad couldn’t throw it away
because we cling to objects like they are people
because I needed a home
to place my thread
and buttons
and those sharp little silver pins
that get everywhere and become embedded
into the carpet like hidden daggers
that stab your sole when least expected
and make you swear to God
because the pain is too much
I cleaned out your sewing box
and I was reminded of your smile
quick to place a kiss
Revlon fuchsia
sticky
and loving on the cheek
and I missed your lipstick stain on my face
that I endured and scrunched my nose at when small
and I was reminded of your scent—
warm spiced lavender
mint toothpaste
fabric softener
and grapefruit
and vanilla ice cream on Sundays
in the kitchen, the prophetic carved cuckoo clock
ticking away our time in the corner
and I loved and grieved you all over again.

On the days my mind is not at war,
Grey clouded shadows appear,
Leaving a layer of mist over the field,
The raging battle gives way to the ghost town,
Haunted by faint images and quiet whispers.
I can see the silhouettes of people I knew,
And the outlines of places from my past.
I walk through my childhood home,
But the memories of violence are dulled,
Almost as if none of it was real.
My mother’s voice calls my name,
Soft and faded, and I fight the urge to reply.
My father speaks from the haze,
Desperately telling me he’s sorry,
But I can only give him heavy silence in return.
In my own room, I meet my younger self;
She meets my eyes looking for answers,
But I have none to give, only a lingering glance;
All I can say is this is not her fault, and to wait.
I can’t stay long in the house, so I try to find the door.
I revisit friends I’ve lost over the years,
The pain is there, but under a layer of dust.
I see my favorite places through a cracked lens,
And a piece of my heart aches to stay there.
But the danger of the ghost town is staying,
Staying locked in the pain of the past,
And never finding freedom in the light.
A voice calls me to return to the battlefield,
And my weary heart lives to fight another day.

Remember Shawshank Redemption? Remember that prison,
Ancient edifice of grim stone holding in the horrors. All I remember:
Not getting to finish my bubble gum lollipop. No outside food,
A rule of prison visiting. My uncle was a guest there for some years.
Probably drugs, he would loll in Gramma’s brown leather chair,
Lit cigarette dangling from nerveless fingers, eyes almost closing.
Maybe robbery, yet he broke a credit card trying to open our front door
When he accidentally locked us out of our house.
Prisons, more prisons, then an absolute silence. For years.
Gramma kept praying at the Catholic shrine she kept
In the back bedroom, candles glowing under a picture of him,
Shirtless and relaxing in that brown leather chair.
When he finally began reaching out, he had a wife, newer kids,
A job working on oil rigs, making good money, bought a house.
Living the American dream, maybe even a retirement plan.
Things happen, the rig blew up, the safety device slowing things down,
He was saving a friend and lost almost all of his skin.
Living still, he became a millionaire! Riches, luxury homes,
Bought a few new fingers & toes to replace those lost in the fire.
He became benevolent, buying cars and homes for everyone!
(Not for me, of course, I am the nothing of the family)
Things continue to happen, heroin a relief from painful throbbings,
Nerve endings still raw from the flames. He lasted fifteen years,
Longer than any doctor’s rumblings, before asking (begging)
His son to give him that final relief, to give him that final redemption.

Before we moved to the other side
of town my mother told me that one day
my grandmother would be a cardinal.

Grammy sat on a rocking chair
in our living room, and the sun would rise,
shining a halo around her graying head.
A wicker basket sat beside her chair,
and she would crochet tales for me.

Every woman was meant to be a cardinal,
and one day soon she would join the mothers
and grandmothers of our family’s past.

Grammy could translate the birdsong,
stitch their stories into scarves to warm
chilly mornings that we could wrap
around ourselves like a hug.

Our new house has a bay window, refracting
reminders that the sun still exists behind an empty
rocking chair, a fraying basket with store-
bought blankets. Stretching bare trees
line the backyard, the woodpeckers’ hammering gossip
is senseless and driving. Grammy could understand
them like I never could, never would.

On cold mornings I mummify myself
in crimson scarves, a tourist without a translator.

Even though it’s tedious to count the birds in the sky,
every flash of flapping red tightens my chest,
but it’s never her. My hands aren’t built to crochet
like Grammy could, like my mother does now.

I swaddle in the cold, creaky chair, swaying
side to side, fresh sunlight blinds
my eyes, but my ears detect

an echo of a two-parted whistle. A pale brown bird
sits on the edge of the windowsill,
red-tipped and tailed, and I think that she’s telling me
everything will be alright.

I see
That basket.
The one filled with sympathy cards.
Just sitting there, overflowing, lifeless
While Christmas carols chirp merrily in the background.

I see
The death certificate.
Just black and white tiny print
With faded borders
Nothing special
Except
It was my mom.

With a start and end date
Like a play
Whose time had run its course.
An unworthy narrative
For a life so very valued.

Cardiorespiratory failure.

I have to search for
The time of death.
Even though I was there, and it was
Momentous.
How could I forget?

I have to use the camera on my
Phone
To even read the print.

Something so big.
Reduced.
To something so small.

Wait.
It is left blank.
Because
They didn’t even care.
Like I do.

a name i never spoke
never called to, never truly knew
but i sing to you
as you sang to me,
i move towards you
as you move back

how do we please
a vengeful god
how do we play a song
that has no melody
and no words
just silent gasps

what do i say to you
when you never listen
what do i mean
when i was you
and you were me
little movements of love

how do you keep going
when the person you thought
would always be there,
isn’t?