The Poetry Marathon

Look at you now

with greying wood

the once vibrant paint

stripped of color

by time and chisel rain

The garden

now brambles

has returned to seed

as a buffet for the crows

I remember you,

old friend—

canary yellow

with a porch of haint blue

trimmed delicately

with lilac wisteria swaying

in the noonday breeze

Curtains of dust gather

and stare up at the sky

from behind shut windows

like a white-haired elder

with cloudy eyes

remembering

In my 20s

I roared

when I found out

how much I didn’t know

about the body I was born into

and the tricks of contortion

I’d learned to fit inside

assembly line boxes

made to my measurements

Who measures the men?

A hundred years before,

so reticent to end

the long suffering

of (some) women

looking to choose

and catch a deep breath

from the diaphragm

These days

deep breathing only goes so far

when so much is at risk

Are we—

the women,

the queer ones,

the boxless ones—

all some cursed Cressida?

Sentenced to float downriver

in a little boat

for jilted Troilus’ amusement

without a paddle to Roe

Lonely Star

Way back when

you played that song for me

your strong fingertips

doing a box step

between the frets

a dance routine in miniature

I watched the swell

of the muscles in your forearm

at the effort and the art

of vibrating air

You didn’t speak

you didn’t have to

I was eavesdropping—

listening in

on the truth of you

in the pitching of your weight

as you played

like a seabird teetering

in a strong wind

in the fold of your brow

as you summoned

a daydream

distant and shining

You didn’t speak—

I wish you would

Show me yours

hold your light up to mine

I could snack on these crumbs

and eat your stolen secrets

but I’d rather be fed

at the table of your dreaming

and the night sky is best viewed

through the eye

of some dove-hearted dreamer

Lonely star,

drop the act

*First line borrowed from the last line of “Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening” by Robert Frost

Siren Song

And miles to go before I sleep

the sun has reached my reddened eyes

these lines I write yet haven’t reached

the siren song that stirs inside

These small hours I will steal

the verse caught in the undertow

stretching out my hands to feel

a melody I am yet to know

Amphibious

I was a small thing

watching the shifty line

between ocean and sand

a changing place

where I could find home

tides pulling under

the loose earth

of my body

below the surface, it was quiet

I held my breath as she rocked me

lulled by her heartbeat

Waking on my back

a flock of nurses in white

floated through the room

When I came out of surgery,

my first breaths were shallow

I was born in the ocean

taking my first steps

on land