(A cop out. And nod to all the times you said “I don’t know” when I asked you what was wrong.)
The fact of the matter she said. Like facts matter. You can say Please do the dishes but what I hear is The labor you perform is insufficient/You are insufficient/You are too much not enough. She wrapped hands too small for their great strength around the barrel of a needle, made incisions in the cloth left behind at crime scenes, looked deep at the source of hurt so she could turn her back on her own. The fact of the matter hung between. A long forgotten murmurance. A shadow highlighting obstruction. Say things too often and they lose their meaning. The fact of the matter. The matter. The fact. The matter of fact. The matter of fact way she dissected us. Laid the body on a metal slab. Went through the motions. Fingers sure and palms unsweaty as they ran over the upset messy tangle of organs and infected tissue. Say things too often and they lose their meaning. Or take on new ones. Like I love you. Like please do the dishes. Like forever. Like goodbye.
the ides make me think of what i would do to your heart or your back if exposed to me in a square before all of your followers
march marches, each one new and strange the mingling of spring and winter weather not unlike the twisting of your temperament
each march is different and, in this one, i find myself devoid of you, fantasizing about all the things i never said that were too painful for you to hear. me, your grand protector valiantly succumbing to the ground beneath your boots
in my dreams, i picture my dagger in your back retribution for the impact of your fist on my skin and the delicate intersection of scars left by your words laced and interlocked against the softness of my belly
I spent my day today surrounded everyone around me ebbing and flowing and me, a jetty, stoic and unmoved.
That’s how it is for me, PTSD pushes me from one extreme to the other so emotional I cannot be touched then so far removed nothing can touch me.
Today I let the salt run down me and I stood in the midst of it eyes dry and heart still trying to find a way to reach out from the haze surrounding me to touch each and every one of you.
All I want to do is enfold you take each trembling drop of you and press you into stillness in each of my cracks and crevices build a home within where you can rest your weary bones.
You have been breaking for so long I don’t remember a time when I didn’t hear you, didn’t register your cries in the night, cold fingers of your hands grasping at me only to slide back into the sea and recommence your crashing melody.
Today I spent my day surrounded wanting to reach out, to do more but unable to shake myself from my foundation.
All I can do at times like these is stand. And hope my stillness gives you something you can safely break against.
I am sure that my definition of friendship is different from most peoples’. There is, of course, the laughter. Laughter is a big part of it. I cannot make jokes and have a person sit still and stare and blink. Because I’m fucking hilarious. Just ask anyone. They’ll tell you.
The laughter is a big part of it. There is, also, the understanding. The person who holds on to me in the darkness and who lets me see them. Letting me see them is important. And, though it is difficult, having them see me. The seeing and the being seen is paramount. Bigger than laughter.
Then there is the hard part. The part where the world sometimes tips. The part where I sit vigil over a telephone or a hospital bed and worry. The part where you answer the phone and I am weeping. That part. The part where one of us cracks open and the other fills the cracks with gold.
Standing by with precious metals is the hard part. Having metals melted. Having tongs to hold the dangerous, hot things away from yourself. Finding a way to fill in the cracks without getting burned. Without hurting. Without hurting more than you have to, anyway. Without adding trauma.
I am sure that my definition of friendship is different from most peoples’. I am so grateful that some people have written the same dictionary as me. Some people, when they look for that word in their private libraries find melted gold. Find laughter. And a telephone they always answer.
i am not sure this will be the year i look back on and say “that was the year everything changed.” but it feels like it is i can almost hear the narrator feel the shift great plates aching against each other grinding out a world beneath the surface their movement so potent i can already see evidence in the set of my shoulders and the planes of my face
I close my eyes every time as I inhale the soft skin of your neck. The atmosphere of your pores rushing through me softens the inside of my mouth and shivers the deepest part of my stomach. You smell, my love, quite simply like the deepest, hottest summers of my childhood. Like ice cream melting across my hands and the rising heat of asphalt too scorched to press my naked feet against. You smell, my dearest, like endless afternoons spent lying on the couch, wrapped in each other against the winter cold outside our small apartment. You smell like home.
They found themselves within our path
these liars, standing at the gates of Sarnath.
All the truth in them, beliefs, desires,
cloaked and battle scarred and burnt on pyres
their ashes soaked up in the aftermath.
The bloodbath ended, you stood ever higher.
Face somber, body bent, but eyes much brighter
than these fiends could see from their quagmire
buried in the flotsam of your wrath.
They built themselves a road into Sarnath
these toads disguised as friends, these fiendish liars.
But our residents are clever things and set the pyres
burning long before they sought our shores.
And you, my darling, brought them to all fours
their embers glowing in the aftermath.
the war room
the bomb was dropped
feta lingering between my teeth and tongue
never learned to love it
expanding in my chest
this hot presence
somehow managing to remove myself from me
leaving her a shell
they tell you one in three will have it
and you barely believe
until your mothers turn inside out
or your sisters
and you know
remember being seven
watching it on the tv
foreign and familiar
something lascivious and lingering
black pleather and podiums
spreading warmth and something
the bomb sat between us on the table
my mother’s bomb
words turned into something palpable
larger than that wooden expanse
star space spread and separating
twisting her away
back to that mushroom cloud
the heat of a nuclear reaction
near my nucleus
i am cowardly of truth
so i washed the feta from my teeth
a galaxy that’s full of dust and light whole worlds concocted from another’s detritus and man, so small, eyes closed against the night a collapsing star, a chasm built in space bodies far bigger than the mind can hold a galaxy that’s full of dust and light the solemn edge of routine morning coffee an afternoon commute, traffics frustration and man, so small, eyes closed against the night the footprints of ancient giants, gods almighty, crafting universal causeways with a gesture a galaxy that’s full of dust and light. the incessant, tender buzz of summer insects, the long awaited smile of a friend, and man, so small, eyes closed against the night. the pure attraction of a sheltering sky its depth, an inescapable allure a galaxy that’s full of dust and light and man, so small, eyes closed against the night