I feel trapped inside the husk they call my body
I am weak like the pillowy overhangs of my flesh
As it piles a top itself
and overflows over the waist of my pants
I am acutely aware of
The size of everyone in the room
And
The snacks on the table
The promise of serotonin
wrapped up in sugary satisfaction
But,
Of course
the fat girl wants a snack
I am the butt of every joke
The crescendoing laugh emitted
by a self deprecating comedian
People only like the fat girl
if she’s funny
I am weighed down by the weight
of my own seeming inability
to do what’s best for my body
An inexplicable urge to stuff myself,
leaving no crumbs
Food is a reward
Food is non judgemental
Even if it evokes shame in the end
Food is constant
Food is unchanging
Processed ingredients and food dyes rarely shift
The consumer market is always there for me
Even if their motives are vile
I see myself as an elephant
The elephant in the room at all times
The elephant who everyone is watching
to see how many peanuts she shoves down her throat
The elephant that everyone eagerly watches the ring master torture
for the mere reward of peanuts
Dance, ‘phant, dance
No one is here to watch the elephant
to love it
They want to see if topple from atop its ball
The mistakes and shortcomings
are much more satisfying for the audience
Than the feelings of the elephant
If the elephant is doing well,
The show loses all its meaning.
And the audience
Is no longer interested.
I returned—
not in dream this time.
A cracked floor remembered a chipped tooth
I was lucky to lose.
So I knew:
this was my house.
Last night,
moths came again—
marble-bodied, almost human,
dragging themselves in a line.
They shook,
softened,
grew feathers from their backs.
Their mouths dripped yellow,
eyes hollow.
When they tried to speak,
powder blew out,
fine and dry.
I could not move.
I was one of them.
The house rocked—
was it sea, bed, ambulance?
Something unnamed
was being pulled from me.
I lay like a husk,
a vessel post-purpose,
my mind floating
behind sirens and glass,
watching green blur by.
They said I lost blood.
My heartbeat climbed,
then fell.
Darkness arrived.
When I awoke
I held a child,
white-wrapped, soft-skinned.
His eyelash twitched.
Too tightly swaddled, maybe.
I searched for a hospital.
They told me:
go back.
Back to house,
to country,
to name.
I held him tighter.
My fingers began to change.
Middle and ring.
Under the skin,
fetal shadows bloomed.
When I made a fist,
they rose—
little bones,
pink like tender fruit.
A woodpecker knocked.
I did not move.
Evening came
in a room of moving flesh.
We passed a buoy.
The cloths came off the dead—
they wept red tears.
You floated,
rope between your teeth.
Mine? Yours?
I kissed a swollen man.
His skin, thin as plastic wrap,
peeled under my lips.
I pressed it back.
“I’m sorry,”
I said
to the air.
Then, a room without corners.
Mold breathed in the walls.
My thighs wore paint.
The bed was stained.
The world:
metal warmth,
bones stacked like pastry spirals.
Once,
I wanted you
inside my world.
Later,
I wanted revenge.
Now,
I only want to stay in yours.
Even if it’s only a dream
I can’t wake from.
I laid my head on your lap.
You left no mark.
The sheet remained cruelly flat.
I shook you—
you swayed,
light as breath.
You said:
Go.
Bleed from your fingers
until it becomes meaning.
Or draw a square.
I cried beneath the clouds. The sky cried too.
It wasn’t much. So I turned on the loose
cold tap again.
Then you roared, burning red right through my moors;
“Enough, go cloud your head.”
I stripped, left all my soaked clothes on the floor.
You yanked them out, tossed them toward the door.
Your hands caught hair. My skull found stones and dread.
Where could I go? This floodplain was our bed.
I begged for heat. You left me in the frost.
You called the dew I made decay and rot.
So I built dams, fled thunder, feared the light,
and curled into a moonflower by night.
You hated how my petals sought the air.
You crushed them under gravel, didn’t care.
Said you were parched. Then blamed me for no rain,
and left me cracked and reaching up in vain.
But still this moonflower blooms beneath her rain.
Slammed doors,
raised voices,
tears hitting the floor,
she’s faced with choices.
She sleeps alone
for the first time
in a long time
with a heavy heart.
Her own painful words echo in her head
and guilt consumes her.
What started the fight?
How did it get so bad?
She was unsure.
She gathered her blankets,
and her courage,
then left her pride lying in bed.
Her heart began to race,
worried that he may reject her approach,
but she found him to be completely asleep
curled under a small blanket.
She slinked into the bed with him silently,
She felt him sigh, his body sagging with relief
He held her so tightly, she almost couldn’t breathe,
and it was a comforting feeling.
With her pride left far behind,
and her lover wrapped around her,
Tender apologies were whispered, and then she fully relaxed, knowing that
she had made the right decision.
Eros walked slowly through the forestland,
Near Mount Olympus, in the soft twilight.
By his side, he held his bow in his hand,
As he walked on through the advancing night.
Above the forest, the evening was clear,
As a full moon lit up the mountain’s peak,
An endless number of stars filled the skies.
Through the trees, he saw a wandering deer,
That appeared to be searching for a creek—
He quickly followed its path with his eyes.
II.
Reaching back into his quiver with care,
Eros placed an arrow within his bow.
He quietly raised the bow in the air,
Then he slowly crouched his body down low.
He watched the deer at the creek quench its thirst,
As he swiftly trailed it through the thick brush—
Suddenly, there came a beautiful sound.
The music startled both of them at first,
Then Eros and the deer left in a rush—
The arrow fell from his bow to the ground.
III.
As they both followed the sound of the lyre,
They then found themselves now coming nearer
To a woman on a rock near a fire—
Her sound and her beauty became clearer.
The deer slowed down from the pace which it ran,
And shook the loose leaves away from its fur—
Erato had brought an end to the hunt.
Her playing always charmed both beast and man—
The deer calmly listened from behind her,
And Eros stood enamored from the front.
IV.
They listened together, as she played on,
Wearing myrtle and roses in her crown.
Further into her presence, they were drawn—
Surrendering, Eros placed his bow down.
In the moonlight, Erato’s tunic flowed,
Appearing light blue within the green trees,
And her golden lyre began to glisten.
The fading embers of her campfire glowed,
And remained burning in the gentle breeze—
Eros stood and continued to listen.
V.
Overhead, the moon hid behind a cloud,
The fire was soon extinguished in the dark.
Her playing became increasingly loud,
And the fire reignited with a spark.
The playing then soon silenced in the night—
Her precious lyre upon the rock she placed,
And handed Eros a golden arrow.
He then watched the deer leave in the firelight—
Being thankful, for their presence it graced,
And for the sounds from the clearings narrow.
McCulloch
Would you like to dance?
I could sing your name out slowly
Je-
Mi-
Mah
Lullaby loosely word that reminds me
Of syrup
I mean clearly the marketers knew what they were doing
Because your name still sounds like a poem to me
A deep southern love song
A windy romance
Would you show me the hills?
Walk me up and down
Je-
Mi-
Mah
Weaving through pathways like crochet
Slowly
Until the day fades into stardust
Until the scent grows sweet with the coming dew
I don’t care what colour you are
I care what sunset you bring to your eyes in the morning
And the cadences of your
Laughter
You could sing to me in yellow
Would you want to breathe?
A cathartic huh, huh, huh
Je-
Mi-
Ma
Mah
Muh
Uh
Uh
Uh
Jerimiah was a bullfrog
But you are beautiful
They have not copyrighted your smile
Nor have they formulated your recipe
But I bet I could memorize your walk
I bet I could sell your scent
If you ever gave me the rights
Romeo was a lover
But I’m sure on someone else that name fits like
A ripped pair of jeans
I think Juliet was right
I cannot imagine you anyone else
Anywhere else
Anybody else
Would you smile at me?
I could ease your awkward tendencies
Je-
Mi-
Mah
Oscillating violin strings
Slow moan
I mean you make me want to make you sing
But you keep your perfect mouth closed
FONTAINEBLEAU, FRANCE
OUR LADY OF THE ROSARY
7 OCTOBER 1887
I.
Through these old wooden doors, I welcome you,
To tell you my tale and give you the facts.
This seems the most sensible thing to do—
For it is not only me it impacts.
I became ordained as a Friar to
Obey the ten laws, just as God commands.
I have abstained from any impure acts—
Just as my sacramental vow demands.
II.
I shall now remove the hood from my head
With hopes that my audience understands—
In the evening, as each vesper is said,
I pray at the altar with folded hands,
On sleepless nights, I rise up from my bed,
And pace these silent floors the whole night through.
The countrymen know me throughout these lands
As Friar Jean-Louis of Fontainebleau.
III.
In a field near Avignon, I was born
To a poor family who owned a farm.
I used to roam through acres filled with corn,
When my youthful days were sunny and warm.
I played in clothes that were tattered and torn,
With no trouble to be found anywhere.
Then, one day, a fire brought terrible harm
Upon the farmhouse while I was not there!
IV.
With no home, nor family, I was sent
From place to place until I was seven.
Traveling across the country, I went
To live in Bordeaux at age eleven.
Devoted to studies, my time was spent
With books to help me overcome my loss.
I thought of my family in heaven,
And lived at the Church of the Holy Cross.
V.
When I finally reached my eighteenth year,
It was time for my studies to advance.
My mentors hoped that I would remain near,
And stay in our blessed homeland of France.
I read the letter with a joyful tear—
Feeling my life was given a rebirth—
The university gave me the chance
To remain in Bordeaux and prove my worth!
VI.
Taking on studies of divinity,
I began working the following fall—
Reading about the Holy Trinity,
And learning about the churches in Gaul—
I roamed the grounds of the vicinity,
And kept the teachings of the Lord alive.
Once I was ordained, I received a call
To Fontainebleau in Eighteen Eighty-Five.
VII.
Once my journey to Fontainebleau was done,
I moved into this old monastery.
At times, I felt distanced from everyone—
Except when I walked to the library.
One day, along the way, I met a nun—
A schoolteacher—Claudia was her name!
The step to her walk was light and merry,
And fully intrigued with her I became!
VIII.
Even though in love, anyone would say
I’ve maintained the life of a loyal priest.
I saw her outside her schoolhouse one day,
Located close to Avon, to the east.
I stood and watched the students and her play—
Then left for home to practice my singing.
In honor of a royal Lenten feast,
I heard the Château bells faintly ringing.
IX.
On the way back, she remained on my mind,
I thought about her teaching her classes.
How she kept her dark hair neatly designed,
And the deep blue eyes behind her glasses.
Her beauty and elegance were refined—
She put a lot of work into her looks.
I envisioned her attending Masses
On Sundays, walking with a stack of books.
X.
I imagined her precious smile shining
During her younger days at the convent—
With other nuns, at a table dining,
While celebrating the days of Advent.
And often was I privately pining
Over why we were distanced for so long.
I cannot regret how my time was spent—
For men to love women should not be wrong!
XI.
I accept that I am a mortal man,
And have learned how to reap what I have sown.
I endure all the heartache that I can,
When I dream of her, then awake alone!
This all seems far more honorable than
Giving up a lifetime of devotion!
The thought of that chills me down to the bone,
And hence, I have abandoned that notion.
XII.
With all the dues I had chosen to pay—
Love had stricken me speechless from the start—
I know I should see her some other way,
Than if she were a living work of art!
The very words I wished one day to say,
I kept to myself, as anyone would.
Although, if she could see inside my heart
To know I would marry her if I could!
XIII.
Fifty years ago, in the Château, where
Duke Philippe and Duchess Hélène once stood—
For them, it was a matter of fanfare—
Something they had done for the common good!
They assembled royalty here and there,
And from standard traditions they did stray—
Celebrating twice more than what they should—
They were wed three times in one single day!
XIV.
Their first wedding took place in the ballroom,
Which under the second Herni was made.
It was here where the bride met with her groom,
And here, their undying love was displayed.
It was Étienne-Denis Pasquier whom
Had united them in matrimony.
All around the ballroom, nobody prayed—
As this was the civil ceremony.
XV.
In the chapel was their second wedding—
The one of the Holy Trinity named.
This service Duchess Hélène was dreading—
As it was Protestantism she proclaimed!
Slowly down the aisle, they began heading,
Making sure their image did not falter.
Along the ceiling, each painting was framed,
And the bishop waited at the altar.
XVI.
Their third one was within the royal hall
Filled with large columns from floor to ceiling.
The elegant paintings upon each wall
Helped to maintain the majestic feeling.
It seemed like a good time was had by all
When Pastor Cuvier wed them again!
Visually, it looked quite appealing—
Yet, many must have been hiding their strain.
XVII.
I lament never having had a wife,
While others marry as much as they choose!
I know that this is all part of my life—
And my sacred vows I cannot abuse!
I must pause from vocalizing my strife—
As the Château bells now ring in the hour.
I take this chance to reflect and bemuse
Throughout the tolling of the bell tower.
XVIII.
As God once had instructed all mankind,
I must continue to labor and toil.
Fortune allowed me a true love to find,
Before I am buried beneath Earth’s soil.
With beauty, she is crafted and designed—
I could never ask for anything more.
To help to ease my internal turmoil,
I began leaving flowers at her door.
XIX.
First, I must mention how this came about—
As this next specific part of the tale
Began early last spring, when I went out
With my fishing pole and a wooden pail.
Heading to the canal in search of trout,
I happened to walk past Claudia’s school.
I saw an older nun—looking quite frail—
Knocking at the front door with her ferule.
XX.
The very sight at first had startled me,
When she handed Claudia a letter—
Her older brother had been lost at sea—
As she read, her eyes kept getting wetter.
After I watched her weeping with a plea,
I built a bouquet of mercy—and chose
Forget-me-nots to help her feel better—
Rather than sending a single red rose.
XXI.
As the days, weeks, and months continued on,
I maintained my duties to comfort her—
I prayed for her suffering to be gone,
And hoped bringing her flowers would ensure.
The summer had turned to autumn anon,
And the classes soon resumed at her school—
At this point in the tale, I must infer,
I clumsily had made myself a fool!
XXII.
One time, as I was dropping off her gift,
Just when I presumed that the coast was clear—
I watched a frosted window quickly lift,
And behind it, her students gathered near!
My retreat was immediate and swift—
With the Château bells announcing my fate!
I then returned to my chambers in fear,
And sat at my window, to watch and wait!
XXIII.
Just this morning, in the crisp autumn frost,
I saw the footprints of the blessed nun!
Along the courtyard grass, a path was glossed
With her rapid steps—but not quite a run.
I rubbed my eyes, then my blankets I tossed—
When, from my upstairs room, I heard a sound.
As I opened the doors in the bright sun,
There was a basket of bread on the ground.
XXIV.
She left a bottle of wine for a toast—
In my confusion, I looked all around.
The note under the bottle mattered most—
Telling me her lost brother had been found!
He was located on an Irish coast—
After several months of being lost!
This discourse has allowed me to expound
Upon this tale of how our lives had crossed.
The daughter speaks of him.
He hears the words falling on his grave.
There is nothing he can do but shift in the soil.
Night after night the dead look to the stars and God displays their lives in every sparkling disk,
from birth to death repeating their Godless existence.
In January snow covers the mounds of dirt,
that separate the living and the dead.
He hears the crunch of feet walking above him.
The branches on the trees rise up and down,
the sound is like an angel’s sigh.
Is that you? He asks
In spring he bathes in wet earth. Birth is everywhere.
Babies push to life dropping from their mother’s womb,
green nubs on trees cutting through hard branches,
Tulips and Crocuses straining to break the seal of winter.
Summer, he hears voices here and there, tending to their dead.
There is no life above him, no cries of grief. Only weeds grow above his bones.
Fall is the loneliest time. The wind wails and the graves that have no mourners weep.
The daughter’s voice is weak, frayed as a tattered garment.
There are questions in your voice.
In the life I’ve lived, I can answer nothing.
What words will heal your life?
Is it just my speaking you long to hear?
I will grab a crow from the sky and teach it my voice.
But is it the truth you want? There is no truth that I know of.
There are only facts.
Do you still want to know?
There are sounds above him. A breath of wind whistles through the cracks of his endless death.
Is that you? He asks.
All of us walk through this land that is so dark and malicious. We get tangled in the roots
of the trees, some try to end their suffering by grabbing the feathery tendrils and wrapping them around their necks. They soon learn that you can’t kill the dead.
69
Occasionally the light from the living world shines down on us
and the shadows of our bones tremble.
Can you hear me? Or am I only talking to this stale air I breathe in? There is a muffled cry above me. Did a fledgling fall from its nest?
Is that you?
He promised her his voice, so he hands her a memory.
Mother kept an album page after page of a perfect family.
None of it was true. The bruises didn’t show in the black and white photographs.
After the old man died, I found them crammed into a shoe box. Mother died years before.
His final cruelty towards her. The perfect life she created in that book, abandoned in a box, as messy as our lives had been.
I am fascinated by their stiff gray bodies. There is a photograph of me at eight years old. This was the year life shifted. I no longer held onto that kernel of hope he might change. Reality hit me like a ghost passing through me.
Five years later I found a pint of father’s finest. It was a new world of easy edges and voices that almost sound kind.
A winter storm thunders above him, the wind wrestles a tree from its roots. It lands loudly across his grave.
Is that you? He asks.
At night, in the stars the voices torment me. I remember all of it.
Even If you decorate the grave I lie in, the stench of my sins will kill the blooms you plant.
There is no excuse for the monster I became.
Daughter? He whispers.
Lean over the edge of my grave,
Tell me the life you have.
Death is so quiet I ache to hear a voice.
He leans against the wall of death.
His eyes lift up to the life above him hoping to see just a touch of her shadow,
but he only sees eternal darkness.
Rain steadily taps on his grave.
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