Poetry

As the car tires traverse the gravel drive, I can see it on the porch,
a black bag, big and wide,
clothes from Holly.
I embrace the joy of digging in and finding new-to-me attire,
just for me, straight from Holly.
Then one day puberty came,
And as the clothes stopped fitting,
I finally realized: Holly and I are different.
She has breasts,
And hips,
And money.

I’m learning I’m scared of the things I understand. 
Of the things that I cannot: light cutting through 
The fence and becoming on dead-aged wood, fractals
of shadows.

When I can dare, I look at what should be
The clay of the diamond, but is the sparkle of albedo.
That is, until the sun shifts its position
And my eyes scroll back to all this meaning again. I know

I’m what’s changing. I know my writing and my life
Do too. When Todd Swindell read aloud:
“These Fears are Real not Paranoid” Harold Norse
Looked wide-eyed at him and began to cry.

Said it was the first time he was hearing his poem.
Was asked how that could be and replied:
“We are unable to see ourselves”. These powerful seconds
Are minutes that were hours that fractured

Days back into weeks that became months into years.
Yet years are months into weeks and into days– 
The hours fracture into minutes, minutes into these powerful seconds.
And just now in the 1, I saw all of 0, and was calm.

Sometimes,

I

think
about  my
gravestone,
what’ll the
name be? 
Who’ll
clean       it? 
Sometimes,

I           think
about
my       bones,
are
my       hips
shifted? 
Will the
anthropologist   
who discovers
me tell
people I was a
woman? 
Will   “woman”   and
              “man” 
mean anything
in the
future? 
Sometimes,

I           think
about
my       skin,
soft
and      decayed
by
fungi,
possibly
scrumptious,
sweet
fat        cells
filled
with
estrogen.
        I’ve 
become
ready   for 
love. 
It’s  been
hidden  in my
vial   of
estradiol,
and  now   I
find it  in
the        mouth
of my
     lover,
deep
inside,
where I   desire
for her
  to say: 
“You look 
like a girl.”

Musty perfume,
The kind that grows on you
The haze of cheap cigarettes
Contrasted against the crisp Adriatic air

Catching that familiar scent in my lungs,
I was back on that bus,
My head rattling against the window.
I was drifting along those canals,
Jogging through those modest alleyways,
Scaling those mossy walls

It was as if my feet were planted on the cobblestone,
My fingers trailing the metal railing
My eyes were sweeping the Mediterranean,
My hair pushed back by its current.

I was back
Where there was no heart in need of mending,
No tips to be collected,
No debts to be paid,
At ease in that floating city

Why are the dishes still in the sink?
They will mold overnight.
Why has your dog not been taken out?
The four of you relentlessly begged for her.
Did you pick up your brother from practice?
You have left him waiting too long in the cold.
You forgot to help your sister with her homework?
She will fail because of you.
Why have you picked up less shifts at the shop?
Your family comes first.

The baby has been crying all day,
Did you not feed him?
Your sister will rot her brain out with tv,
How come you never take her outside?
It’s been a long day at the office,
Where is dinner?
She wanted braids, not a ponytail,
Why can’t you just wake up earlier?
That university is an hour away,
Who will take care of this family?

The last of the oak leaves
spindown drunkenly as if they

were in the hydraulics of
mechanical flywheels.

When I rake them up, I will
summon the ocean surface

out past the breakers, bits
of spray will splash my cheek—

collaterals of sound, the sense
and touch of remembrance.

When I rake them up, blisters
will put lava stains on the

inside of my hands. Sunshine
from a yawnin’ distance will

shake loose its last warm rays,
tilting towards an outer rim

in a cycle even stars can’t stay
as forces in the heavenlies.