ϟ 37.
Untitled
I wanted to curl into you,
my cheek inside your palm, no longer able,
to cure me, even in dream.
ϟ 36.
When I think of you:
I remember how
on that muggy Monday morning
that pure-hearted boy with braces
handed me two packs of bootlegged batteries
to replace the ones in my CD player
borrowed for the weekend.
ϟ 35.
There was nothing to find there,
Only seaweed
smuggling small fish
onto the sea glass-covered sand.
ϟ 34.
At your funeral,
buried my fingers
in the petals and clenched the
thorns shaking with fear
could I live without?
how would I survive without?
my love, my soulmate.
ϟ 33.
But, what of love then?
Hungry for you more than any other, moth to flame,
the wings, curling into themselves, sizzling, the dew hiss of the spine,
the orange of the flame consuming,
us.
The story weaved between the lines,
our palms,
mine open, yours forever closed,
our hearts,
forever.
ϟ 31.
Untitled:
After all these years,
I still can’t find the words to
write about your eyes.
На той глубине
яркой голубой воды
мне снились сны
Ты уже тогда
знал меня и я спала
в твоих веках.
Maybe between two
languages, two worlds, I’ll find
approximation.
ϟ 30.
A Thought:
No one waits too long;
though we couldn’t feel it, the world,
was spinning faster.
ϟ 29.
F.Y.I.
I still remember,
my middle school b.f.f.
blowing up my spot.
I can l.o.l.
with you all day every day
but I’ll remember.
I’m the meanest bitch
I know, you know, you said so,
but just in case though,
F.Y.I.
ϟ 28.
Autumn
For eleven years I watched my mother
bite her bottom lip instead of spitting
reprimands my father served
for dinner every night.
Ten years since, my mother tells me,
she just couldn’t bear to purge
what she was given, tells me,
she was never raised that way.
I am the opposite, letting angry epithets
drip from my lips onto the tablecloth
in a vow that the injustice
won’t be swallowed silent.
For eleven years I watched my mother
lift the bags under her eyes, to and from, job after job,
first, twisting gold wire into earring hooks and then,
designing roads we’d walk away on from my father’s violence.
Ten years since, my mother tells me,
that the leaves in Massachusetts turning colors taunt her
with their beauty, tells me,
that the autumn makes her lonely.
I am the opposite, letting red and gold wash off
the damage of my father’s anger,
watching the leaves fall, I am throwing out my dowry,
choosing life without inheritance.
ϟ 27.
Manifesto:
“Do I contradict myself? Very well, then I contradict myself, (I am large, I contain multitudes.)” - “Song of Myself,” by Walt Whitman
I, too, can be a:
Jewish-Russian-Israeli-American poet;
Immigrant-twice-over-turned-Citizen-of-the-Free-World poet;
From-da-Bronx-from-Brooklyn poet;
Welfare-poor-to-student-loan-debt-poor poet;
Silver-spoon-fed-rose-on-up-from-the-ghetto poet;
Intellectual-family-redneck-in-laws poet;
Clothes-to-wear-no-food-to-eat poet;
Learned-to-read-when-I-was-three-Daddy-left-because-of-me poet;
Women’s-studies-minor-Law-Degree-holder-Republican poet;
Anti-anti-racist-anti-hegemony-anti-misogyny-anti-Feminist-anti-homophobia poet;
White-privileged-passing-for-latina-passing-for-Italian-passing-for-Arab poet;
Lost-a-hundred-pounds-gained-a-hundred-pounds poet;
Heterosexual-loving-a-woman-poet;
Daddy-issues-Mommy-issues-poet;
Love-hate-apathetic poet;
poet.
But what difference would it make?
Better still to keep you guessing:
“What will she think of next?”
ϟ 26.
Just to Say:
I wrote you a letter
I will never send for
I am a creature of
habit of comfort of
past wrongs and future hurts
that will never settle.
On paper there were words
honest and true even
strangely considerate
thoughtful reflective words
trying to tune broken
piano-like strings.
But I will not send it
the paper full of words
adjective-laden as
they might be as it is
the truth hurts those you love
more than our hard selves.
ϟ 25.
Dear Andrew:
My mouth is full of
stones, beer bottle glass, pebbles,
here and there, small twigs.
I am covered with
the evidence of your death,
coated with the guilt.
There is nothing I
could write, to do you justice
just, “I love you. Still.”
ϟ 24.
How I Miss You
I sat, a long time,
pored over every word said,
couldn’t make sense of it.
