Monday July 31, 2017
Mona in the bath tub on her knees, scrubbing.
Finds a collection of black mildew. Furrows
her already furrowed brow. She curses his
name under her breath, Fucking Dennis and your fucking
lack of purpose in this life except to make me
fucking miserable. She hasn’t washed herself in
a week. She’s protesting. Maybe one of these
nights Dennis won’t try to stick his dick in
when she’s asleep on the couch. He tells her his
mother is going to inspect the bathroom and Mona
laughs as if she cares. But here she is, in the tub,
on her knees, bleeding for a man who does not bleed
for anyone but himself. And his mother.
Later, the kitchen tile is spotless and the food
is on the table. Dennis lies and says he’s
been working hard all day.
Drinking. Complaining. Leaves out the only
parts that are true.
His mother pulls a sprig of rosemary out of her mouth
and spits into the tomatoes. Mona’s lips turn upward.
Dennis throws a chicken leg at Mona’s face.
I told you my mother hates rosemary.
Monday, August 29, 2016
I put it there along with other things. I wanted a collection of all the lies I had been telling. In the secret parts of my understanding I like to believe they live in a garden on their own. But they are not thriving in their soil. I don’t water them. I have deep hopes that they don’t need it. The walls of this decision are dried and crumbling. They don’t fall or crack revealing light. They pile on top of the old ones and bury the new ones that were just put there for a second. Now everything is locked up. The idea that this is all I’ll ever be. I am the one languishing in the vault. I am the one wasted. And I only choose to visit the scraps of myself there when no one else is around. Stuck internal, asleep on a mattress that divides all of my bones into unusable groups, and keeps me from attending the day like they all expect me to.
Thursday June 23, 2016 at Starbucks
Circling Before Landing
Man puts on the radio, turns the dial so slowly
we hear bits and pieces of moments
and we wait until he finds the station
he can put up with
that won’t make him crazy
He is responsible for us now
he keeps our spirits
in the switch of the dial
in the palm of his hand
In the corner
by the only
there is a bony girl in green and black
who holds a paper
airplane up to the light
that was here yesterday
she is holding on
but the music doesn’t stay
the crackling continues
Her mother is lying two feet
away from her
her belly robbed in the
the blood is slowing now
her eyes remain open
pointed at the ceiling
Tuesday, October 20, 2015
An email from The David Suzuki Foundation
If you felt around the little one’s head, you’d notice it has bumps ranging in sizez all over. You’d have to finger deep beneath the hair to get to the source. Gracie showed me how she liked to pick at the scabs on her scalp and pull little pieces of it through the hair one at a time. It was a long process. It usually involved many tries, and a little blood. The more she did it, the longer they lasted. Grace wasn’t the only one. Seth also had little scabs on his scalp. He was better at leaving them put than Gracie cause he was always out running around and getting dirty, occupying his head with ant hills, or the migration patterns of the hawks up above. Gracie was afraid of the outdoors. She didn’t like to the leave the house at all, but she liked watching Seth play in the fields behind her new house. Gracie would sit for hours, picking each scab through her long matted hair, fighting the knots, and the temptation to leave the bits resting in her curls.
Thursday April 3, 2014
-If we never get out of here, it’ll be all your fault, Rita. If that is even your real name.
-I’m not going to tell you again, I didn’t do it on purpose and it’s my real friggen name. Do you know many people who go out looking on purpose for a name like Rita?
-I don’t believe anything you say anymore.
-I was told you were the best.
-Who told you that?
-I don’t know, Dr. Arnold. Maybe someone else too, I don’t remember.
-He said that?
-Yeah. So then I wasn’t worried, because I trust him, but now I’m not so sure.
-I told you it was an accident. I’m sorry you’re missing it.
-The ceremony. I’m really sorry about that.
-Right, well your kid only gets one kindergarten graduation. Here’s hoping she makes it to high school or I’m coming after you.
-If it’s any consolation, I missed my kid’s graduation too. On purpose. I was working.
-I know, I’m a bad mother. I wasn’t thinking of him then.
-You feel bad about it at least. That’s a start.
-Not then I didn’t. When it counted.
Saturday December 28, 2013 at Sambuca Grill
Like a baby’s face,like a sky’s blank slate, like a call in the wild, like a fresh wall of paint, I’m your sinner, you’re my saint.
I can’t cause these power outages to last longer.
I just keep seeing myself in the mirror and I know it’s clearer than it was before.
With the lights out I know, that my problems are gone, so I keep myself in the dark dark until I can understand my mark.
On the world.
Just a big splatter of poetry. I put on to you so you can see.
My life is a coiled up wire that is exposed and could explode into a million sparks of gold if I let it. If I’m not careful.
Clean minds like to clean mine, all my troubles go and into the black hole they blow.
I know I know. I can’t keep the image staying untarnished cause I just like finger smudging and floor rumbling.
They try, they try. But I’m alone most of the time and I can’t hear, what’s inside, I can’t hear all the pride I store away.
They try to keep my anger at bay.