The Poetry Marathon

My childhood is tied to Dr. Mario
and the ten inch portable tv

stationary in my memory, a gift

from the man I’ve loved best.
There were always gifts

and birthday cakes.
Saviors, the both of them.

A poem is a vessel, a vase,
a place to store heartache and
clarity. A poem simply is.
Can it be free from judgment?
A poem is a hot breeze in August.
It’s the end of summer. It’s wanting
to burn the Old World and
replace it with compassion. A poem
is an aneurysm. As much as
I’ve written that, it never gets
easier. It’s mourning your soul mate
except that your soul mate was a dog.
It’s as hard as breathing. It’s a cut
Deep, through flesh on your thigh.
It’s the hesitation. It’s a promise.
It’s the desire to do it again. It’s
a pull. It’s the clatter of dirty
spoons waiting for the fog to clear.
A poem is the Thing with Feathers.
Thank you, Emily.

Might live in my brain forever,
despite the building being
demolished. As it should have been.
The walks. The pool tables. The men
that wanted to put my tips
down my shirt, the sticky sticky
dance floor. The one middle aged
couple grinding it out every night.
Lemon pepper wings at 10 cents each.
My spare time spent with Louis
and Lestat. 17 and no concern for me.
Concern for Hana, for Kristen, even
when the men were the same.

I want someone who wants
to protect me but knows
I don’t need it.

What if the worst had happened?
My brain still sticky on pavement.
What if my body lay limp
on an ill-used sidewalk?
Place me in parallax.
Bring me to equinox.
But I breathed instead.

I can still see the sheet metal
held overhead, charging. One
missed step, a portable guillotine.
Running around the bonfire
at 3am drunk on Everclear
and guilt. Not afraid for himself.
Not afraid for me.
Reckless piece of shit.

For this. I still have time
for a song,
Don’t cry out loud.
That angry spittle and spite and spilled beer
truly her tragedy. When she crashed
in, eyes blazing, hands ready
to wreck my peace. She upended my particle
board dresser, my bookcase, my sleep.
My broken fairy now sits
on my mantle. Her fingers have been lost
to time. Maybe my mother
took them with my voice and trust.
$2 on the counter. I’ve said it before
and I’ll say it again—- always take the money.

Oh rowan and ash, oh oak,
oh willow and pine.
Oh save me from my mind,
from belts and bruises and hammers.
Please. Save me from burning flesh
and screams screams screams. From
electrical grids on a mattress and the quarters.
Please. Save me from kerosene, from
laps, from kiwi and canned beans,
from bread balls and pan fried crusts.
Oh, pine, save me from the ground,
from the makeshift pulpit, from
words and wails and water. Save me from
the water, from death in a recliner,
Natural Light still in hand, from
broken concrete, from… from… from memory.
Wipe it clean.

I saw the moon
in sand, ran away, lost in the redwood
forest of Sonoma, used my hair
as a pillow, followed a lonely dream.

When I was 26, I found a sea turtle
shell in the forbidden woods
of Hunting Island. I found courage.

When I was 26, I touched the stage,
palm flat, awe in my heart.
Near and far, near and far.
Yes, Carol Ann, I hear you.

When I was 26, a silk skirt
held me close, a strike through,
an unfamiliar mouth with unfamiliar lips,
a wish on wild feathers.

When I was 26, Angela became translucent
like stained glass in an abandoned
chapel, like a ghost, like cataracts.

When I was 26, I felt, I swam.
I beamed, braved, held my heart
in my hands like an urchin.

I want the secrets of the universe
to fold and fold and fold
before my outstretched arms.
I want the salt of my tears
to corrode the chains
that hold my bones together.
I want to drink motherwort tea
and eat wild dandelions.
I’ll crush my eggshells and divine
my past, clear as selenite.
I want stars in my curls,
green and green and green.
Artemis soul—- guide me to salvation
in your bow, let me fly as arrow
through the heart of mankind.
A fennec fox my mind.

Beckons like a broken boat
over a small waterfall,
like a garden rose
before bloom, like
an exposed live wire,
like an unfolded sheet,
like toes in sand,
like stargazing on
the Edgar Allan Poe library,
like an unmatched set
of earrings, like the Atlantic
joins the Arctic with
the bears, like a rainbow
hammock swaying in June
like a Catholic funeral.