The Poetry Marathon

the wasp in my stomach lost her wings
on December 28^th in the suburbs of Philadelphia.
what was aflutter snapped as the syllables
fell out of me and on to
the once-white table. yes, it’s true
i was never suitably grateful
for the taste of your sweatshirt and
the scratch of your voice from 3,000 proper miles.
later, when this haunts me, it won’t be your face,
but the switchblade sound my heart made
that burns the blue girl at her gas stove.
tell me that i’m selfish.
agaonidae only live for 48 hours and this wasn’t my first mistake.
i would go back if i was not wingless,
stuck forever in living amber,
surviving on sequential cups of espresso and absinthe.
i would rechrysalize in new time
and fail to torment you, entirely.
make no mistake, i was the mistake.
please hold that
with you when you never think of me,
with you when i realize, i won’t have flight again.

it won’t be anything you say, or your off brand jeans,
this place is a certain kind of killer and,
intentions not withstanding, you look like chum.

your slick hay colt legs will not avoid
carefully placed stones of unimaginable consequence,
and there will be no way to predict

which balloons start brush fires, or
what doors the loose keys in your apartment
have sacrificed
without consulting you.

if i were you i’d revisit
everything you’ve ever done
each night, between the hours of 2 and 4
while he sleeps beside you.

accept the dark side inimical to your house of learning,
adopt a posture that feels comfortable
crouched beneath a table, breath inflating a paper bag.

The last time I saw you
Oxblood brogues perched on a beach cruiser,
I admit to being unsettled.
20,000 holes on the average human face
But yours were gravitational –
I suppose stillness after a flood is a longstanding trademark.

and now, having awakened me,
you must expect me to do something. but
the problem is I don’t know which part of the story I’m in –
is this the valley of the Baptist,
Or, have we already arrived at the place of the skull.

like i assume many of us, ive been writing poetry for a while because it is there and because i love it. i am so excited for this kind of poem community and to see how craft changes once i… treat it like craft instead of like urge.

here’s a poem from the practice my poetry half marathon compatriot (pumbrino!!) and i have been doing. mostly putting this here to prevent myself using it as a cheat.

cant wait to read everyone’s work!

millennial

i’ve got a voice, but
it’s the voice of a child
don’t know what it wants but –
i know it won’t stop
do you think like this
stuck in what if, but
it cant be and was
not likely – a wish
a myth,
as if you could
be, as if
we knew at any point what it could be
to be, we’re stuck
in our texts which is to say
you’re never where you are
are you, no you’ve never been