Author: poetryfest

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

I woke up
And the world felt quiet
The sky was still gray
Like the thoughts in my head
The ground was still wet
I sat in silence
Thinking about everything I couldn’t fix
I looked outside
And saw a small bird
It was flying
Despite the strong wind
I watched it for so long
It didn’t stop
It didn’t fall
It just kept going
And I thought
Maybe I can too
Rise and fly in the face of the storm
Sometimes, hope is small
Yet, it’s still there
…..

My mother gives birth to her pain.
in every contour of my body
she shapes her sorrow
until my screams echo
the softness of her voice
and we contort into each other.

like mother like daughter

mother please eat me
consume my flesh and birth me again,
my body is cold and numb
and hunger is better than feeling nothing.

I feel her hunger in my own chest
it is carnal and quiet,
it beats the same as the thump in my wrist,
suckling and sustaining her eternity

i am the young to be eaten
the sacrificial lamb.
consume me quickly,
i do not want to stain
the newly pressed linen.

oh mother, do not be gentle

do not forsake me now.
i know i am not what you wanted
but i will lie patiently on your altar
until the return comes.

mother, please eat me

I am the daughter
to my mother
grieving the death
of her husband
helping her
empty
his closet
return
the hospital bed
complete
the paperwork

I am the mother
to my daughter
trying
at four years old
to understand
the loss
of her grandpa

When do I
get the chance
to be me?

The little girl
now a woman
who grieves
the death
of my father too