Tag Archives: writing

For You

I would have
Like Medea
Cut my brother into pieces and
Scattered his remains

I would have
Like Cronus
Eaten my own
Children

I would have
Like Icarus
Flown toward the sun
With waxed wings

I would have
Like Sisyphus
Pushed the boulder
Up the hill forever

I would have
Like Prometheus
Stolen the gods’
Fire

I would have
Like Ajax
Fallen upon
My own sword

I would have
If only you had
Crossed a puddle
For me.

Done Traveling

I always thought
I needed to see
The Eiffel Tower and
The Great Wall of China and
The pyramids in Egypt and
The Hanging Gardens of Babylon
Or at least the pearly gates of Heaven

But that was before
I uncovered your existence
All Seven Wonders of the World
In one five-foot blessing

And now I’m done
I have no urge to travel
Any measurable distance from you

Numb

I hold you too close
In my heart
Pressed firm
Against the walls

But these chambers weren’t
Meant to hold this much love
To pump this much you

I’m afraid I’ll turn
Blue if you ever go
Afraid I no longer know
How to take a breath on my own

In hopes to forget
What might come
I took a shot of novocaine
To numb the future pain

But I still feel you too much
In my heart
Pressed firm
Against the walls

I’m afraid I no longer know
How to take a breath on my own
Afraid I’ll turn
Blue if you ever go

Simple Lovemaking Directions

1. Slowly … melt the pole of the Frozen North.

2. Travel and/or dock along the borders, consisting of

the West Coast and the Eastern Seaboard.

3. Move inland, flooding the Deep South.

4. Abandon or go down with the ship.

5. Drown, even, if you must. Or …

6. Float safely skyward toward the heavens.

Nonexistent

You remind me of nowhere that exists
A masterpiece no painter could ever paint
An opus no composer could ever create
A dream that could never be dreamt
A planet in a galaxy far, far away
Never to be discovered by a mortal

Little Gifts

On Christmas Eve my father gave me bruises as a little gift. He dragged me down the stairs by my long hair and beat me under the tree’s lights.

“You think Jesus never got a whipping for doing something bad?” he yelled.

He wasn’t drunk and he wasn’t out of his mind either. My father just beat me because he was mean. I didn’t even know what I had done wrong.

“You’re a leech,” he told me. “A leech.”

I wasn’t even sure what a leech was but that night I looked it up in the dictionary.

On Christmas morning my father woke up with my teeth in his arm. That was my little gift.

“What are you doing?” he yelled.

“Being a leech,” I said. “I’m a leech.”

My father didn’t call me a leech no more after that but he did knock out my front teeth. They were just baby teeth, though. I didn’t need them anyway.