at night
in bed
in your sleep
your feet
hug mine:
toes wiggle,
heels nuzzle,
arches cradle;
you moan-
but never wake.
in this moment
i listen
for the words
i don't hear;
the mouths
in your heels
whispering
to the ears
in my arches:
i love you
i love you
even
in my sleep.
Monday, April 8, 2013
7/30: ghost line from Melissa May
The day I killed my mother, I got out
my Sunday best, washed it again, just
to be sure, pressed it with starch,
curled my hair, flossed. I wrote her
a love letter and wrapped it
around the blade. I ate well,
two eggs over medium, bacon medium,
toast and gravy, orange juice, coffee, hot
and black. I went to the chapel and prayed
for the first time in years. I kissed
a stranger and stared directly
into the sun. The day I killed my mother,
I went to her house, rang the bell,
placed the love letter directly into
her heart and then left, cut off
all my hair, didn't cry, burned the clothes,
didn't cry, tore the pages from the books
she'd given me, carved her name
into the soft flesh of my belly, didn't cry.
my Sunday best, washed it again, just
to be sure, pressed it with starch,
curled my hair, flossed. I wrote her
a love letter and wrapped it
around the blade. I ate well,
two eggs over medium, bacon medium,
toast and gravy, orange juice, coffee, hot
and black. I went to the chapel and prayed
for the first time in years. I kissed
a stranger and stared directly
into the sun. The day I killed my mother,
I went to her house, rang the bell,
placed the love letter directly into
her heart and then left, cut off
all my hair, didn't cry, burned the clothes,
didn't cry, tore the pages from the books
she'd given me, carved her name
into the soft flesh of my belly, didn't cry.
Sunday, April 7, 2013
6/30: It's Okay.
It’s okay to eat nothing
but cookies, or boxed macaroni
and cheese; you’re grown now,
an adult, as they say, and now
you can stay up late, you can watch
all those films your mother said no to,
you can brush your teeth or not
brush your teeth, you can have dessert
first.
You can take candy
from strangers, you can go home
with strangers, you can fuck strangers
until they are no longer strange.
You can confess
intimate details of your life
on the public transit
or on the stage, or on
the blank page.
You can cuss
to yourself, or in front of children,
you can still
dream about becoming an astronaut,
a mermaid,
a mermaid,
You can find sneaky ways to get
on top of buildings, you can stand on the roof
and scream at the clouds,
I am here, look at me,
I am here, look at me,
you gods and
devils;
I am arriving
all the time.
Saturday, April 6, 2013
5/30, just before midnight, from an accidental ghost line by Sonya Renee
I love that there is an answer to all things.
Look long enough, hard enough, look
in the closet behind the box of your father’s
ashes. Look
inside your father’s ashes.
Under the
graduation cap
and gown, try flossing, who knows,
it could be tucked inside a popcorn kernel.
Answers like Of course you can and No,
it will cost too much. Answers like blue and tomorrow
or never,
answers like thundering rivers,
like the smell of yeast bread, like drinking
to forget, like oak.
And so, I know, there must
be an answer for me there, somewhere, I love
that there is, I search when you’re sleeping, peek
between your knobby toes, the chaos of covers
twisted around you, a shelter of turmoil, run
my fingers through your hair, search behind
your earlobes, sift through the smoke
of your dreams and find,
just there, in the right corner
of your primal,
godly mouth:
YES.
YES.
Thursday, April 4, 2013
4/30: To The Coworker
To The Coworker Who Said, Loudly,
In His Man Voice In His Man Body,
In The Kitchen When Her Song Came
On The Radio, "Rihanna Deserved
To Get Beat," And In That Instant
Became My Abuser:
NO.
You do not get
to hold our names
and our fates
in your great
and terrible mouth.
In His Man Voice In His Man Body,
In The Kitchen When Her Song Came
On The Radio, "Rihanna Deserved
To Get Beat," And In That Instant
Became My Abuser:
NO.
You do not get
to hold our names
and our fates
in your great
and terrible mouth.
Wednesday, April 3, 2013
Ode to the Scar on my Hip
(after a prompt by Jon Sands)
In these ways you are like myself: you are obstinate
and ornery, slow to heal and forget, a survivor,
victorious, particular about when and how
and by whom you like to be touched. You
are a beautiful testimony of survival, you,
so like a tiger, a dragon, a snake, your softness
and hardness, your teardrop shape, the way you perch
on my hip like a lover, as raw and pink
as a baby's first wail. Do not be afraid
of lasers, I would never threaten you with them. Do not
be afraid of reopening. You, so like a medal,
a ribbon, raised like a ridge, a mark
of exclamation. You talk shit on oceans
and riptides and rocks, your makers, you tell them
then will never take you down. You drink tequila,
neat, no salt, no lime, no
back, while you do ballet stretches in front
of a mirror. You paint. I remember
the days and days it took you to heal, as you lay
open, stayed open, shining like an overripe strawberry,
still pregnant with the ocean's salt. The world teaches us
we should hide our scars; instead, I framed you
with a tattoo, you deserve a frame, a parade, a star
on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, a star
in the sky, maybe that one there, on Orion's belt,
just at the hip, a cake, defiant
with ten dozen candles.
In these ways you are like myself: you are obstinate
and ornery, slow to heal and forget, a survivor,
victorious, particular about when and how
and by whom you like to be touched. You
are a beautiful testimony of survival, you,
so like a tiger, a dragon, a snake, your softness
and hardness, your teardrop shape, the way you perch
on my hip like a lover, as raw and pink
as a baby's first wail. Do not be afraid
of lasers, I would never threaten you with them. Do not
be afraid of reopening. You, so like a medal,
a ribbon, raised like a ridge, a mark
of exclamation. You talk shit on oceans
and riptides and rocks, your makers, you tell them
then will never take you down. You drink tequila,
neat, no salt, no lime, no
back, while you do ballet stretches in front
of a mirror. You paint. I remember
the days and days it took you to heal, as you lay
open, stayed open, shining like an overripe strawberry,
still pregnant with the ocean's salt. The world teaches us
we should hide our scars; instead, I framed you
with a tattoo, you deserve a frame, a parade, a star
on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, a star
in the sky, maybe that one there, on Orion's belt,
just at the hip, a cake, defiant
with ten dozen candles.
Tuesday, April 2, 2013
The atom bomb apologizes (2/30)
I am a song of death never meant
to be sung. I did not write myself
into being, I was collaged, Frankenstein-style,
by men with minds
like sunshine, angry and not angry.
I am a rain of ruin, a crash
of becoming, a ballet of regret.
I am so hungry all the time.
I only meant to breathe and now
there are entire parts of the world
in which you must not stop the car
or even drive it at all.
Give me your hair, each precious
twisting strand, your white blood cells,
proud soldiers, one by one. In return I will give you
cell clusters like constellations, exploding fast
like supernovas, like myself, will give your children
extra legs to run.
to be sung. I did not write myself
into being, I was collaged, Frankenstein-style,
by men with minds
like sunshine, angry and not angry.
I am a rain of ruin, a crash
of becoming, a ballet of regret.
I am so hungry all the time.
I only meant to breathe and now
there are entire parts of the world
in which you must not stop the car
or even drive it at all.
Give me your hair, each precious
twisting strand, your white blood cells,
proud soldiers, one by one. In return I will give you
cell clusters like constellations, exploding fast
like supernovas, like myself, will give your children
extra legs to run.
Monday, April 1, 2013
1/30: Telling jokes with the moon
If you want to tell jokes to the moon, you must
abandon all your old tricks. She's heard them. Knows
the one-two-jab, the dance and punch, knows
them all. You'll have to be clever, but not quick;
the moon does not like sudden. Her changes
come on slow and heavy. She is an expert
on fear and patience. Tell her a joke
that is mostly sad. Start with sorrow
before you move in for the laugh. Finish
with something sparkling and she'll love you
forever, call you her favorite, promise never
to turn her face from you, and her laughter
will ripple like the waves she's always moving
and she will never let you drown.
abandon all your old tricks. She's heard them. Knows
the one-two-jab, the dance and punch, knows
them all. You'll have to be clever, but not quick;
the moon does not like sudden. Her changes
come on slow and heavy. She is an expert
on fear and patience. Tell her a joke
that is mostly sad. Start with sorrow
before you move in for the laugh. Finish
with something sparkling and she'll love you
forever, call you her favorite, promise never
to turn her face from you, and her laughter
will ripple like the waves she's always moving
and she will never let you drown.
Friday, March 29, 2013
The Pros and Cons of working in a high priced restaurant.
The first pro is obvious: People usually tip a percentage of the overall total. Getting people to change their percentage is *hard*. Most of us, myself included, say: "Well I tip this % if it's good, and that % if it's bad, but I might tip as high as blah % if they're awesome!" But be honest, we all usually tip the exact same amount, with rare exceptions. By working in a restaurant with a higher total, the percentage will work out more than it would at a lower-end restaurant. If I can't change your %age, I can start with a higher total at least.
That's the first obvious pro. A second one is less obvious: It's been my experience that the more people are paying to eat, the better behaved they feel they must be. This means all sorts of things, from less sexual harassment (it'll never go away altogether) to less loud/messy children.
There are some interesting cons though. The first may be obvious: The sort of people who prefer fine dining as their norm have a hard time with how close the word "server" is to "servant." They get us confused a rather lot. This can manifest all sorts of ways. My least favorite is when people refuse to acknowledge me.
I have a job to do, yo. You've come here because you want me to do my job for you. So why, then, do I walk up to the table and stand there like a damned hovering idiot while you continue your conversations forever? I'll try walking around the table a couple times, but if you continue to ignore me, I walk away. I'll take your drink order when you give it to me, but I'm not psychic. I need you to actually give it to me. I'd honestly like to greet you, ask how you're doing, wish you a good day thus far, tell you about specials, and offer to help with any questions about the menu and suggestions. But damnit, I'm trying to work here. If you don't want a server, you can stay home and call for pizza. And even then, you're going to have to answer the door.
Oh, I come back and I do the hover-circle-dance again, but each time I get ignored, I make it quicker. Eventually one of them starts looking nervous. She really wants her Arnold Palmer, and her friends telling stories and ignoring me is keeping her from getting it. The third or fourth (or sixth?) time around, she'll interrupt for me and say, "Hey, do you think we should go ahead and order our drinks?" Thanks, lady. Thank you so much for noticing and caring, if only about getting your AP.
The other, far weirder way this manifests is when they don't see us. The ignoring me when I come to the table is one thing, but not being seen is altogether different. I've got two examples.
One is my own. I wait on a group once a month of old retired military white dudes. They're having their little privileged circle jerk, it's adorable, whatever. We give them discounted beers. There's a tangent here: this sucks because we quote them the price of the beer assuming they're going to tip us - that is, we don't quote tax. That'll be $3, sir, we say - far easier to manage and make change on than $3.27. But when they don't tip us, they're actually negative-tipping us. We still have to pay that tax. But that's beside the point. I'm telling you this to bring up one certain guy in the group. He calls me his girlfriend.
Fucking ew. You're 70 if you're a day, and by the way, the only way you could ever make me your "girlfriend" would be rape, because I do NOT consent to you having any kind of relationship with me. But this guy, he knows every month he can come in and "slum it" by flirting with his serv(er/ant) "girlfriend" and get away with it, and he does.
But he came in with another group. This man who so looks forward to seeing his "girlfriend," so much so that he looks for me when he comes to the military beer party and will wave me down from across the room, was sitting at another table and I ran the food to help their server. I carried the plate to him, I set it down in front of him, I announced the order, he didn't ever see me. Didn't recognize me. His "girlfriend." Because in his mind, I only exist in one place, and that is the only place he cares to see me.
This happened to another friend of mine in a far more extreme way. She's a swim instructor and gives lessons to kids in the summer time, often in their own home pools. She tells me one night at work that she's working a party where there's a woman there she knows. She taught this woman's children to swim every summer for several years. She would watch this woman's children all day. She helped raise this woman's children. If these kids ever end up in danger in water and make it out alive, this woman can thank my friend for their lives. My friend is serving this woman drink after drink... and the woman never sees her. Never recognizes her. Why would she? My friend is just some rando proletariat servant and she's the bourgeoisie. They don't look at us, they look through us. We are simply props in their rich-folk play.
There's another con, besides the classism that manifests all sorts of ways, and it is People Who Want To Get Something For Nothing. They know it costs a pretty penny to come eat in our restaurant, and they feel like they deserve it but they don't want to have to pay full price. You know these people. Shit, you may BE these people, although if you are, whether or not you admit it is anyone's guess. Some folks know it, but some insist they're in the right. These people will eat their entire meal before telling me something was wrong with it and it totally ruined their experience. Nevermind that I checked at least twice during the meal to make sure things were going fine and they didn't say anything then. Of course I have to tell my manager if there's a problem, so they'll usually end up getting that meal for free, and maybe even a free dessert.
That's fine, whatever. If you still give me a decent percentage, I'm not going to be too upset. I'll still know you're a cheater and a liar and a cheapskate, and you're probably going to be tipping me on the discounted total rather than the total amount on the total work I did for you, but whatever, I'll be fine, because you're ripping off the restaurant, not me. It's when mufukkas run up drinks and starters and entrees and desserts and then tip *less than ten percent* that I really get chapped. I am a Damn Good Server, and I give all my tables an equal share of my awesome service, because you can never know who's going to be great tippers and who's going to stiff you. But don't punish me just because you feel like you shouldn't have to shell out dough to eat in our spot. Like that one punk kid who brought his date in on Valentine's day and wore his damn ballcap the whole time inside and left me exactly $100 on his bill of $100.26. Sure, I don't mind paying part of your check and serving you for free. Or this asshole yesterday who was one of those people who just wants the world to be his audience and laugh at his jokes who gave me $65 to pay for a $63.38 bill. I don't carry change on me, so I gave him back change on $63, eating the 38 cents. He left me $6.
Speaking of people who just want the world to be their audience, that happens more in high-end restaurants, too, in my experience. Lonely people with no one to listen to them flap their gums so they come to your job because they know you have to be nice to them. You're a captive. You're required in your job description to put up with them.
This guy got weird yesterday. It started out only a little weird. I asked if he wanted lemon in his tea - I hate lemon, so I like to give people the courtesy of not bringing it if they too hate it. He said to me:
"I can't eat jalapeños. I used to eat whole lemons."
I'm not sure how we got to jalapeños, but whatever. At that point he hadn't been too annoying so I figured I'd humor him. "Whole lemons?" I asked the way I knew he wanted me to.
"Yep, the peel and the rind can keep you from getting cancer, so I ate the whole thing! I used to eat one a day!"
Hey guess what, I don't care. It was obvious he was one of those who just wants you to laugh at everything he says and be super shocked and impressed by all his declarations but I just didn't have that to give that day. I just wasn't feeling it and I couldn't fake it. I still had plenty of Awesome Service to give, but I wasn't going to be someone's canned-laughter audience, so I mostly ignored him. Right up until I forgot to bring his katsup. "I'm so sorry," I said. "I made it, I just left it in the kitchen. I'll be right right back."
"Made it? WITH YOUR OWN HANDS?" he yells in feigned surprise.
I get it, dude, I get what you're trying to say. I just looked at him blank faced. I just don't have what you want right now. I'm not going to laugh, I'm not going to protest and play the game and say "No I meant I just pumped it into the cups," I just looked at him and stared but he only missed one half of a second before barreling on into:
"When you get your hair cut, you're going to have to give me a discount!"
I... WHAT... BUT... KATSUP... HAIRCUT... DISCOUNT... WHAT.
I spent all day trying to puzzle that one out. I've still got nothing.
I feel like only Lewis Black can understand my pain on that.
Please feel free to share server woes specific to your particular sort of service in the comments.
That's the first obvious pro. A second one is less obvious: It's been my experience that the more people are paying to eat, the better behaved they feel they must be. This means all sorts of things, from less sexual harassment (it'll never go away altogether) to less loud/messy children.
There are some interesting cons though. The first may be obvious: The sort of people who prefer fine dining as their norm have a hard time with how close the word "server" is to "servant." They get us confused a rather lot. This can manifest all sorts of ways. My least favorite is when people refuse to acknowledge me.
I have a job to do, yo. You've come here because you want me to do my job for you. So why, then, do I walk up to the table and stand there like a damned hovering idiot while you continue your conversations forever? I'll try walking around the table a couple times, but if you continue to ignore me, I walk away. I'll take your drink order when you give it to me, but I'm not psychic. I need you to actually give it to me. I'd honestly like to greet you, ask how you're doing, wish you a good day thus far, tell you about specials, and offer to help with any questions about the menu and suggestions. But damnit, I'm trying to work here. If you don't want a server, you can stay home and call for pizza. And even then, you're going to have to answer the door.
Oh, I come back and I do the hover-circle-dance again, but each time I get ignored, I make it quicker. Eventually one of them starts looking nervous. She really wants her Arnold Palmer, and her friends telling stories and ignoring me is keeping her from getting it. The third or fourth (or sixth?) time around, she'll interrupt for me and say, "Hey, do you think we should go ahead and order our drinks?" Thanks, lady. Thank you so much for noticing and caring, if only about getting your AP.
The other, far weirder way this manifests is when they don't see us. The ignoring me when I come to the table is one thing, but not being seen is altogether different. I've got two examples.
One is my own. I wait on a group once a month of old retired military white dudes. They're having their little privileged circle jerk, it's adorable, whatever. We give them discounted beers. There's a tangent here: this sucks because we quote them the price of the beer assuming they're going to tip us - that is, we don't quote tax. That'll be $3, sir, we say - far easier to manage and make change on than $3.27. But when they don't tip us, they're actually negative-tipping us. We still have to pay that tax. But that's beside the point. I'm telling you this to bring up one certain guy in the group. He calls me his girlfriend.
Fucking ew. You're 70 if you're a day, and by the way, the only way you could ever make me your "girlfriend" would be rape, because I do NOT consent to you having any kind of relationship with me. But this guy, he knows every month he can come in and "slum it" by flirting with his serv(er/ant) "girlfriend" and get away with it, and he does.
But he came in with another group. This man who so looks forward to seeing his "girlfriend," so much so that he looks for me when he comes to the military beer party and will wave me down from across the room, was sitting at another table and I ran the food to help their server. I carried the plate to him, I set it down in front of him, I announced the order, he didn't ever see me. Didn't recognize me. His "girlfriend." Because in his mind, I only exist in one place, and that is the only place he cares to see me.
This happened to another friend of mine in a far more extreme way. She's a swim instructor and gives lessons to kids in the summer time, often in their own home pools. She tells me one night at work that she's working a party where there's a woman there she knows. She taught this woman's children to swim every summer for several years. She would watch this woman's children all day. She helped raise this woman's children. If these kids ever end up in danger in water and make it out alive, this woman can thank my friend for their lives. My friend is serving this woman drink after drink... and the woman never sees her. Never recognizes her. Why would she? My friend is just some rando proletariat servant and she's the bourgeoisie. They don't look at us, they look through us. We are simply props in their rich-folk play.
There's another con, besides the classism that manifests all sorts of ways, and it is People Who Want To Get Something For Nothing. They know it costs a pretty penny to come eat in our restaurant, and they feel like they deserve it but they don't want to have to pay full price. You know these people. Shit, you may BE these people, although if you are, whether or not you admit it is anyone's guess. Some folks know it, but some insist they're in the right. These people will eat their entire meal before telling me something was wrong with it and it totally ruined their experience. Nevermind that I checked at least twice during the meal to make sure things were going fine and they didn't say anything then. Of course I have to tell my manager if there's a problem, so they'll usually end up getting that meal for free, and maybe even a free dessert.
That's fine, whatever. If you still give me a decent percentage, I'm not going to be too upset. I'll still know you're a cheater and a liar and a cheapskate, and you're probably going to be tipping me on the discounted total rather than the total amount on the total work I did for you, but whatever, I'll be fine, because you're ripping off the restaurant, not me. It's when mufukkas run up drinks and starters and entrees and desserts and then tip *less than ten percent* that I really get chapped. I am a Damn Good Server, and I give all my tables an equal share of my awesome service, because you can never know who's going to be great tippers and who's going to stiff you. But don't punish me just because you feel like you shouldn't have to shell out dough to eat in our spot. Like that one punk kid who brought his date in on Valentine's day and wore his damn ballcap the whole time inside and left me exactly $100 on his bill of $100.26. Sure, I don't mind paying part of your check and serving you for free. Or this asshole yesterday who was one of those people who just wants the world to be his audience and laugh at his jokes who gave me $65 to pay for a $63.38 bill. I don't carry change on me, so I gave him back change on $63, eating the 38 cents. He left me $6.
Speaking of people who just want the world to be their audience, that happens more in high-end restaurants, too, in my experience. Lonely people with no one to listen to them flap their gums so they come to your job because they know you have to be nice to them. You're a captive. You're required in your job description to put up with them.
This guy got weird yesterday. It started out only a little weird. I asked if he wanted lemon in his tea - I hate lemon, so I like to give people the courtesy of not bringing it if they too hate it. He said to me:
"I can't eat jalapeños. I used to eat whole lemons."
I'm not sure how we got to jalapeños, but whatever. At that point he hadn't been too annoying so I figured I'd humor him. "Whole lemons?" I asked the way I knew he wanted me to.
"Yep, the peel and the rind can keep you from getting cancer, so I ate the whole thing! I used to eat one a day!"
Hey guess what, I don't care. It was obvious he was one of those who just wants you to laugh at everything he says and be super shocked and impressed by all his declarations but I just didn't have that to give that day. I just wasn't feeling it and I couldn't fake it. I still had plenty of Awesome Service to give, but I wasn't going to be someone's canned-laughter audience, so I mostly ignored him. Right up until I forgot to bring his katsup. "I'm so sorry," I said. "I made it, I just left it in the kitchen. I'll be right right back."
"Made it? WITH YOUR OWN HANDS?" he yells in feigned surprise.
I get it, dude, I get what you're trying to say. I just looked at him blank faced. I just don't have what you want right now. I'm not going to laugh, I'm not going to protest and play the game and say "No I meant I just pumped it into the cups," I just looked at him and stared but he only missed one half of a second before barreling on into:
"When you get your hair cut, you're going to have to give me a discount!"
I... WHAT... BUT... KATSUP... HAIRCUT... DISCOUNT... WHAT.
I spent all day trying to puzzle that one out. I've still got nothing.
I feel like only Lewis Black can understand my pain on that.
Please feel free to share server woes specific to your particular sort of service in the comments.
Sunday, January 20, 2013
Exercises in Honesty
1.
I only make a promise if I know
I can keep it. Put another way, I never
make a promise I'm not sure I can keep.
Promises
aren't always words. Sometimes they're sighs,
glances that linger, pleading eyebrows
raised in fear, my mother's fist, fingertips
taking their lovelong time, my mother's slow-burning
whisper in public, each barometric syllable a portent
of things to come.
2.
The first time my sister walked in on my parents,
I refused.
Cuddling, canoodling, that's all, kissing, playing, that's all, how
can I love anyone if I can't love the woman
who birthed me, how can my father
love me if he loves a woman who burns me
how can my partner love me if all
I know how to do is burn?
3.
Fire isn't the only thing that burns.
My mother's hands, my mother's voice was a burning my love
for him is a burning, acid
burns too, these things don't burn
like fire. Acid touches
and takes hold, moves in, spreads out, consumes
in such a way that nothing
was ever there, leaves scars,
leaves melted, leaves raw, leaves.
4.
This isn't supposed to be another poem about my mother.
5.
I want nothing more than to stand
somewhere sacred-
a courthouse, a chapel, a childhood backyard-
to hold his hand, grip his gaze and say,
i promise. i promise. i do.
But what if some acid
slips out accidental?
It isn't polite to burn guests.
6.
I lose
my shit
if someone touches my head.
I never knew why
til somebody asked me, "Did someone
hurt you there?" and i'm two years old,
I only make a promise if I know
I can keep it. Put another way, I never
make a promise I'm not sure I can keep.
Promises
aren't always words. Sometimes they're sighs,
glances that linger, pleading eyebrows
raised in fear, my mother's fist, fingertips
taking their lovelong time, my mother's slow-burning
whisper in public, each barometric syllable a portent
of things to come.
2.
The first time my sister walked in on my parents,
I refused.
Cuddling, canoodling, that's all, kissing, playing, that's all, how
can I love anyone if I can't love the woman
who birthed me, how can my father
love me if he loves a woman who burns me
how can my partner love me if all
I know how to do is burn?
3.
Fire isn't the only thing that burns.
My mother's hands, my mother's voice was a burning my love
for him is a burning, acid
burns too, these things don't burn
like fire. Acid touches
and takes hold, moves in, spreads out, consumes
in such a way that nothing
was ever there, leaves scars,
leaves melted, leaves raw, leaves.
4.
This isn't supposed to be another poem about my mother.
5.
I want nothing more than to stand
somewhere sacred-
a courthouse, a chapel, a childhood backyard-
to hold his hand, grip his gaze and say,
i promise. i promise. i do.
But what if some acid
slips out accidental?
It isn't polite to burn guests.
6.
I lose
my shit
if someone touches my head.
I never knew why
til somebody asked me, "Did someone
hurt you there?" and i'm two years old,
six, eleven, fifteen, laid out
on my parents' bed, my stubborn curls
draped over the edge as she claws
the brush through trying
to square peg my round hole straight.
I like for my lover to pull my hair.
7.
In my dreams my fist is a brick and her face
is pudding, layered, vanilla opens to strawberry,
a slapthump symphony, sweet and wet, I like for my lover
to slap me sometimes.
8.
Our bodies promise, too,
without using voices,
knot themselves around other bodies, other hearts.
When I rest my head on his chest I can hear
his heart opening
on my parents' bed, my stubborn curls
draped over the edge as she claws
the brush through trying
to square peg my round hole straight.
I like for my lover to pull my hair.
7.
In my dreams my fist is a brick and her face
is pudding, layered, vanilla opens to strawberry,
a slapthump symphony, sweet and wet, I like for my lover
to slap me sometimes.
8.
Our bodies promise, too,
without using voices,
knot themselves around other bodies, other hearts.
When I rest my head on his chest I can hear
his heart opening
When he wraps his cradle hands
around my head
I'm home.
9.
Sometimes I hear
her laugh claw out of
around my head
I'm home.
9.
Sometimes I hear
her laugh claw out of
my throat.
I thirst
for acid.
But I stop.
I can not tell you
I love you
through scars.
10.
When I tell you
I love you
I want it to be
a promise.
I thirst
for acid.
But I stop.
I can not tell you
I love you
through scars.
10.
When I tell you
I love you
I want it to be
a promise.
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