The Poetry Marathon

Your face was blue when we first
met, the first time I saw you
outside of pictures, outside of me.
Your whole small body shook
with holy cries, hallowed shrieks.
They subsided when your tiny cheek
pressed over my heart, when we breathed
together. You turned pink later
that night, hours passing since you
were forced from my body, laughter
pushing you to join me in this world.
Your movements staccato– too small
to be real, I dreamed you were
an animatronic infant, a sweet
deception. Black hair fell past
your ears, plastered to your neck
by amniotic fluid. But I’ll never
forget that blue, umbilical cord
wrapped around your neck, the first
thing you ever wore after me.

Hey. Can you still hear me?
Are you still there? Is there
anything left of you besides
the ash and bone fragments
in the floorboard of my Accord,
a car you never saw?
Hey. I miss you. I miss
how your fur felt gripped
in my fist when I cried
so hard I thought I would die.
I miss your head in my lap,
your gold-green eyes stuck
like a window cling to mine
until I could breathe again.
Hey. You’re good. Still.
Hey. I hurt. Come lay with me?

Jonah took the easy route,
running from the world
straight into a sperm whale.
Swallow me whole, take my
body as brine, flesh
shifting, turning into
soda bread. Or chew me
like a gummy worm–
I’m empty and sweet.
I’ll love you like I loved
Goliath who couldn’t see,
led to the slaughter, held
for fear and mocked and hurt and martyred.
Don’t let me die this way,
don’t let them use me or my
soul made of broken glass and
rusted fish hooks. I can only
breathe out mustard gas now.
Let me be remembered for that.

On my third cup
of tea, I learned
your hair is red
like mine in sunlight,
that your nose turns
upward. Slightly.
That your mouth
curls like ribbon
when I smile.
Brown was always
just brown until
I loved your brown
eyes and the way they
squint at my puns.

Please stop picking at your nails.

On my third cup
of tea, you sang
to me, pressing
fear from my shoulders
with snowman fingers,
letting it drip
down my arms into
my tingling fingertips.
Hands were just hands
until yours held
my waist, held me
close, tried to
clutch my heart.

Turn me widdershins,
take the breath from
my chest, peel me in
side out, a fraction
of who I could have been.

Turn me widdershins,
pluck the grey from
my scalp, boil it
in oil, deep fried
meaning, crust on
seasoned cast iron,
mirror image of my intent.

Turn me widdersins,
and leave the scarf
around my brow so I
can pretend I’m blind–
I can see underneath
if I tilt my head just right.

Turn me widdershins,
take what I earned, what
I fought for, and burn
it in my front yard,
ignoring my cries while
I cook fried chicken inside.

Turn me widdershins
and give back what I lost
to cheap beer and
Marlboro Milds, the years
before my first child,
spectrum miracle I never expected.

Turn me widdershins
and believe me when I
speak of sacrifice and lace,
an unspoken apology,
please don’t make me
say it. Love me anyway.

Turn me widdershins,
turn back the years until
I’m young again, a full
person under law, before
my skull was split and spliced,
when I knew what I wanted.

X marks the spot
on my lip where
I was kissed by
the hollow rusted
handle of a fought-
over sledge hammer
pulled from the
fists of my nine
year old brother.

A blood blister
swelled against
my bottom front
teeth while the
outside was held
together with
a butterfly stitch,
and I wasn’t allowed
to watch tv for a week.

When my hands were small, I clutched
the wand of my mother’s
curling iron, plucked from atop
the deep freezer on Madden Drive.
I held it to see how long it took
before I had to cry out in pain– I
smelled burning hot dogs, flesh
turning red but not yet black.
My palm was cold, no pain, but
something told me to release, to drop
it on my toes. When I stepped back,
I heard my mother in the kitchen
calling to me as one does to check
on a silent two year old. I cried
against my will, triumphant yet defeated
as my mother’s hurried footsteps approached.

The Field Mouse lived
in the front left pocket
of a black down jacket
that belonged to a Dapper Winter Man.
The Dapper Winter Man packed
bottles of water and a tent
and beef jerky in January
to hike a triangle of the
Appalachian Trail. The Field Mouse
peeked and bumped with the heavier
steps. Husks of cars from
the 1930s led the way up and up
to the trail head, some had fallen
down and down from the ledge.
And though it was January, the
Dapper Winter Man grew warm hiking
up and up. He sat on a stump
and drank a whole bottle of water
and tied his down jacket
to a tree. He stretched his legs
in the fallen leaves, out and out,
arms up and up. When he had rested
enough, he grabbed his bag and stood
and kept walking. The Field Mouse
was left behind. The sun went down
and the trees turned as black
as the down jacket, still
tied to a branch. The Field Mouse
slept. The woods near the trail
cracked and popped and growled
and still the Field Mouse slept.
And when the Dapper Winter Man
knew he left his jacket with
the Field Mouse, he made a small sound,
not knowing where it might be.
The Dapper Winter Man opened his tent
and built a fire miles away
and the Field Mouse slept.
When light slinked over the edge
of his mind and out onto
the water below, the Dapper Winter Man
stretched his legs in the open tent,
out and out, arms up and up. He walked
all day under the arch of the sun,
lost already at dusk. When he sat
in the trees where the trail disappeared,
the Field Mouse made a small sound.
The Dapper Winter Man turned around
and left the way he came
to find his way out, walking
down and down. When there was no light
left for anyone, the Dapper Winter Man
found his black down jacket
with the Field Mouse inside
and made a small sound. He put each arm
in, out and out, felt the Field Mouse
in his front left pocket, and walked on.

Crickets are too swift for you,
Beardie-Love, so I’ll pinch
a plump mealworm, make it squirm,
brush your cheek with it
until you crunch it. Crunch.
Munch on shredded collards
spinning between my thumb
and index finger, tickled
under your chin. My digits
are too large to eat, Love,
your nose to tail fits
on my forearm. You may perch
in my hair while I scoop out
your sand, slice sweet carrots
for you, slice strawberries.
Munch. Flatten yourself
when I reach in until you
smell my skin, crawl up
and toward my neck. I’ll cradle
you in terry cloth, your nails
need trimmed. Soak in the tub
while I fetch fresh water, never
minding the wet nose at the door.

Two black eyes the
size of nickels peek
from under caramel fluff,
nose twitching at the smell
of rain. Back legs
pump and kick, three
pellets clink down
on the hardwood. A salt
wheel dries from enameled
bars, a wooden chew splintered
under a fuzzy paw. Chocolate
colored ears frame his face,
nose still twitching
domestically. Lop.
Lop. Lop.