Author: poetryfest

2021

I was always a
string bean
of a girl

Now, those
straight lines
are replaced
with curves

After my first
my body
snapped back
mostly
within a year

Three years later
I’m still waiting
for that
to happen
after baby
number two

We were eloping,
you and I,
birds,
smoke and blue jeans,
escaping into these halves,
One piece at a time.

The first was the rusty rooftop,
The other was burnt cigarettes,
and then the dusty buses,
set free in this place,
all on this photograph,
and picture frame.

We all live with pieces of drama
with thorns that rubs us raw
Your memory leaves me in tatters

Happiness, like smoke, thins
and drifts until it no longer exists
Leaving me wondering how I could
have been so careless

I never knew today’s sadness could
be caused by yesterday’s shadows
But young men too easily dismiss the weight
of the bags they carry

I allowed loneliness to follow me
until I gave up and let it slip
into the dust of time

Memories will fade like night at the
approach of dawn if you
can forgive yourself
Now you sit quietly in my thoughts
and I can smile at your memory
But sometimes death comes before peace

A girl loves nothing more
than a good pair of jeans.
One that fits where it should
and falls where she wants.
Her favorites were black
like the gloves of the doctor
who filled the creases of her face
with Botox
to hide her history from the stares
of a crooning crowd.

She forgot her phone when she
went to the bathroom
so took mutilation of her legs
as entertainment
instead.
She wore those jeans for a weak
afterwards
and tried to smile
but her man-made cheeks
don’t move towards joy
anymore.

O, how beautiful they called her.
An eternal youth,
a nature belle.
How perfect her jeans hugged her hips
and stretched around her dips.
Truly
there was no room in her heart to love
anything other than
her jeans.

But I,
held in the chains of her
temporary love,
begged her to stay in this
world of art.

We buy a plane ticket. Not to one of those beautiful white-sand beaches in Hawaii where the colors and pineapples bloom; instead my knees ache with the strenuous monotony of a 15-hour flight to a new home. We hire a maid. Her name is Noor. She teaches me to wrap my face and hair properly, to stay out of the way, cooks our dinner at night-tabouleh, falafels, never my rice and beans. Noor covers her bruises. She makes me want to tell her about my own, only I can’t because mine aren’t on my skin and I read that I should never speak ill of my husband If I mean to survive. At night I listen for your footsteps, wait for the lights to go out. I hide underneath those rags in fear of what will be to come. The bruises will spread from the inside and finish me off; that you’ll finally lose control and I’ll be grateful for these wrappings to hide the swelling. I tread carefully to avoid the end(s) and purge myself of all I love.

have you seen an ant jump
have you had replacement surgery
a knee for a knee
have you seen people replace people
entirely

when you see an ant jump again
how do you know it’s the same one
people make memories
visiting tuscany
photos ahead of wineries
next year they visit again
and form new ones

and so we are always in a rush to replace
until one day we replace
ourselves
with our children
perhaps replace isn’t quite right
‘stack’ sounds about right
people never go away entirely
memories don’t either
and ants neither

if you keep stacking on top
the bottom, no matter how solid
starts giving way
and finally flattens
and so we’re just three dimensional objects
waiting to be photographs

Chicago trains sounding the alarm,
just like clockwork,

barely awake before the sun,
twilight before sunrise peeks in.

The robin, cardinal, and dove
performing for the ears of the risen.
Blue hour,
Blue Monday,
Blue soul.

Reality awakens,
softness of the feathery rug,

creaking bones,
and the pause…
Before a long day.

Do you know what rest is?
Really know
what rest is?

Maybe you are building the hard work up,
in the presence of the blue.

It’s in you,
It’s in us all,
It must be.

On this rock spinning,
we’ve built our own home?

Right?

Oh, to be free.
Oh, to rest.
Oh, to be blue.

I walk through thoughts like roses lined in rows,
Each petal bruised by things I never said
The garden keeps the secrets no one knows

A breeze recalls the way the silence grows,
Soft vines of doubt that twist around my head
I walk through thoughts like roses lines in rows

Beneath my feet, the earth remembers those,
Who bloomed and broke, then wilted when misled
The garden keeps the secrets no one knows

A lily leans where once a promise froze,
Its white face bowed afraid to look ahead
I walk through thoughts like roses lines in rows

The sun drips gold, but every shadow shows
The ghost of words we buried and put to bed
The garden keeps the secrets no one knows

And though the path may lead where no one goes,
I find the leaves still whisper that we should mend
I walk through thoughts like roses lines in rows
The garden keeps the secrets no one knows.

a poem is like watching james charles.
“hey sisters,”
echoes in my mind.

i hear his voice,
whenever i write a poem.
i hear his whispers,
his songs.

i feel the hair of his makeup brushes,
which stand there,
unattended.

i see his bright eyeshadow,
his red lips.
i see his lip gloss,

the tone of his child predatoriness,
which passes by,
without a sound.

it’s as if a poem,
with it’s whispers and screams,
all in one.

his failures pass him by,
as his successes land him on the red carpet.

a red carpet,
filled by words,
makeup,
and stupidity.

it’s an representation of humanity,
of thought,
you would never have a poem,
if there was never a james charles.

I love you forever,
Since you let
I haven’t been the same
While the ruthenium of your heart stopped
Mine still remains
Yet it beats alone
I reminisce about your laugh and smile, I began to wish you had stayed a little while
longer
Can you hear my cries from heaven?
I’ll never forget when you told me
I’ll love you forever