Writing

The Cold, This Year

my sweetheart is the leaf-dust in my shoe,

with every step \grinding/ the road

fresh with tar, I’ll leave the bottoms of

my feet, marked

 

we both know trees are lighter

without their leaves

 

my hair auburn I follow

embers of the sun, leave my

body, white bark, cracking

beneath the clear blue sky

 

this year I’m flying too

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Fist Full of Rocks

the person I love most in the world stands in front of me and I think to shake their hand and I think this is my only chance and I hold out my hand to the one I love and my hand is full of rocks and I stand there with my arm out and my hand is full of rocks and I think to shake their hand I think my only chance my hands are full of rocks the one I love the most has gone away my hand is full of rocks

Small Classes Are Surreal

Quiet: there is no one here but me.

The professor is commenting on a Bishop poem. He talks about dreams and what it means to enter the spiritual realm. A man transforms into a dolphin – who is already him – his hair smells like the lake. The rain has stopped but it will begin again. Students are graduating in a white tent on the field. A beeping outside: even that, peaceful. I follow The Path and it leads me home. (Still here, in class.) My glasses are half dark. Should I be taking notes? I watch the ceremony from my mind. The graduates walk up a staircase and disappear into the lake.

“It’s weird how easily you can be replaced.”

The whole class makes one cento.

 

—June 15, 2017

Lie #1

I can’t walk bare feet in the junkyard because all the metal will cut me and then I’ll have to worry about infections – it’s never the initial cause that kills you always the infection – at least from what my mom tells me, she’s a doctor.  All I do in the junkyard is kick around so I definitely would get cut if I was bare foot. I stepped on glass once. Or it was my cousin who stepped on glass and I watched as she stood there with her heel lifted, her blood already pooling on the gravel. Stepping on different textures is supposed to stimulate your brain. There is this park with a special path made out of smooth stones just for stepping. I never finished the path because my feet always hurt after a few steps. My mom says my skin is still too soft. Freud says the skin is the bodily ego. They are both doctors. And I think that’s really funny the thing with doctors and skin because I’m in a hospital bed right now surrounded by doctors and none of them are telling me to put on my shoes and I’m beginning to wish they would because my feet are getting cold. My feet are getting so cold.

Oct. 26

The lake was / for the first time in months / a mirror / It was like ice after the first lick / When you take it out of your mouth and put it in your palm / and it’s like you can see right through it / like glass / but there’s only more clear / clear opening to clear / and the sky on its surface / the sun still busy threading light into the clouds / I could see Dali’s elephants / faint in the distance / moving so slowly / I hold this in my heart.

A Poem, I Guess

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I wish I was a black wolf that could turn into mist.

I wish I was running through the woods and into the lake.

I wish I was diving, blue back to blue.

And everyone would poke their heads out and say comeback!

And everyone would be so mad.

And I would run and I would run and I would not understand them anyway.

I would just be a wolf in the woods.

Gone to mist.

Royal Fowl

The golden eagle swoops down and grabs me by its talons and I am the eagle and I am taking a nose dive but I bounce up, right before impact, I bounce up and I soar higher than I’ve ever gone. And this continues—with so much strength the air is sliced open by my beak—diving/bouncing to infinity, like a heart going into frenzy, forever.