Motor Escapist, Hour Four

Silver flash in low light,

darting between trees in a dull roar,

faster, louder, a bright red gleam

as I perch on a high seat, speeding down

a dusty road, throttling a cool 50 miles per hour,

and I am a goddess of speed,

Artemis, Apollo, race me, it’s 1922

and I’m still vibrant with fear and grief

but full of life. No second war has worn me down,

the terror of that Great War is beneath poppy fields

and I’m streaking by, fleeing fear

and dressed in red, triumphant and terrified and mad

with the want to outrun everything once again.

Starlight Stroll, hour three

I love this city.

Every time I walk the streets, there is a sound, a smell,

like a distant beast, purring, roaring, thrumming

wrapping me in its warmth, its slumbering

and as I stride, long-legged and though it’s an illusion

in this luminous moment, I am safe, warm, and free.

The Darkest Hour, hour two prompt

Standing still in woods alone,

long limbs shake and ears prick

hearing hoofbeats just beyond the woods.

A partial alarm is waiting

Heart pounding and quietly quaking

watching the man admiring the snow.

I turn and sprint to life, fleeting like wind,

dark against black, against Robert Frost’s

‘the deepest night’,

a lone deer flying deeper into the wood,

the wood still, and silently, filling with snow.

A Depressed Person Finally Showers-Hour One

That first night back, I almost didn’t want to bathe.

Cold tile bit into the backs of my thighs, my back,

supporting as gentle rain showered down, warm,

soothing sounds pounding down as it swirled down the drain.

Too tired to move. Too tired to think.

Numbly wrapped up in a grey fog that lifted only a little while

and only that warm water could wash it away, the flow mimicking,

only for a little while, your warmth, your voice,

until it too swirled down the drain, and I’m left cold, naked, alone.

[Hour Twenty-Four]Good morning, good night

Home is a person, a place, a feeling.

A long trek back to the warm,

the familiar, the strong.

One day I’ll come home to arms

to hold, a voice to embrace.

And just once, just once I crave

the boring, the basic and simple.

Honey, I’m home, I’m home.

But until then it’s notes,

the last goodnight

and the first good morning,

a temporary stay until I’m that much closer

to where I belong.

[Hour Twenty-Two]Fury

A sharp smack

stinging cheek, a print

deep red, throbbing,

cold shock and hot pulse

and my throat closes.

I feel it burn,

hot and sick and bright in my chest,

raging, any words

turning to cinder in my mouth,

but eyes dry, cold, and aching.


[Hour Twenty-One]Ode to the Heart

You have beat with me since the first month. Danced, broke, healed, scarred,

beared with, carried, and punished me every second, every moment I breathed, you beat on.

You’ve raced at a lover’s touch or slowed to a low crooning song, ached when I grieved

and hurt when things fell apart. But because of you, I am healthy, dancing, moving,

getting stronger, getting tougher, and though you race for the sweet moments and crave

the kind words, it isn’t beauty that keeps us strong. You fight through the pain, the metaphorical

heart working with the literal brain, and perfect aorta, vena cava, pumping and pulsing and quietly

drumming along as I run, run, run long-legged, as I stand, as I fall, beating and working and letting me breathe. Until we are dust and you have gone bust, because of you, I live. 

[Hour Twenty]Nocturnal Habits

Thick soles thmp down against asphalt,

continual stride, long-legged, steady,

as a full moon hangs through thin cloud sheets

beckoning to tired eyes the coming home.

[Hour Nineteen]self-centered self portrait

I am a catalog of genes, and someone lost the index.

Blue eyes, brown hair(not too long, thick, dense) hips

and thighs for running short distances, a laugh that

someone says is like an aunt, a smile that was braced in,

a nose straight, soft, long lashes, mesomorphic basic

amalgation of genes messily slotted and categorized

a pinch of this and that, a mouth that talks and a smile

that crinkles the nose and a body I punish for crimes

I committed in grief, in self-pity, and I swallow my pride

and just look at me. Look at the insecurities and

see the pride, the shame, the joy, the grief, the pain.

I am what my mama’s mama made, and yet I am me.