The Poetry Marathon

several years ago scientists were able
to create a beating human heart
with a spinach leaf

the vascular systems found in this plant
resemble our own so intricately
it can be layered to create cardiac tissue

so I will not be told
that magic isn’t real
no doubts that we are all connected

it is beating and pulsing with viscous life
passion mapped electric and conscious
all that I’ve wanted is proof

something substantial to support my claims
to validate my dreaming nature
my lust for life

I couldn’t make it through the episode without dissolving in a fit of tears
like exposure therapy like the fullest release like finally being seen
in my exquisite suffering
not unique to me but rarely written into scenes
I’ve never seen it played back that way

I observed hopefully, intently, as others watched it too
but I’m confused – didn’t you see what I saw?

are the parallels being lost
are we on the same channel
is this thing even on?

how was the similarity not jarring
all too familiar warning signs
until they’re fighting to pull her close
almost too late

pleading that they are right here
they don’t want letters
they want to be let in

but it’s not that fucking easy

it’s
just
not

this creature is a curse that lingers peripheral
whispers in your sleep
steals you right out from underneath their noses

and you fight it
with everything you have
running for your life
screaming and flailing
stumbling
barely escaping
this time

this time

until you wake up in that haunted place again
on unsuspecting days
that creeping headache never fully releasing
it’s grip
it’s got it’s claws dug in
wake up running again
fighting again
body on the verge of breaking
it wants to wear you down
catch you when you’re alone
at your most defenseless

how long can it be drowned out with music
with memories of better days of connection of loved ones still living
before the grief and the fear and the guilt

those bittersweet moments
seared into the front of your mind
like your survival depends on them
projected large and clear
impossible to miss
impossible to leave behind
dragging you back from the ledge

the same ledge I’ve been on for half of my life
carved my initials into it years ago
so that you’d know I was no stranger
I want you to see it
I want you to understand

that this is a curse – sinister and dangerous
contagious and invisible

until you learn what to look for

white writers write about flowers
limited by brightly colored metaphors
easy descriptions
simplicity and safety

takes less to swallow and sell
than we budgeted for
best to stick with what we know
lilies and orchids and baby’s breath

the flower shop on the corner
in downtown Albuquerque
my roller blades at the front door
while I’m organizing stacks of cards

Georgia’s hands soft and calculated
curling ribbon with the edge of a blade
removing thorns from long stemmed roses
a balance of violence and grace

her husband passed suddenly
unpreventable – a hole in his heart
I was always impressed
by how her heart remained so whole

we had met when she let me make a bouquet
and trusted that I’d return later to pay for it
I came back every day for the scent
and the safety of that cool damp room

the one that preserved
kept crisp and fresh
petals pressed open frozen lightly dewed
I wanted to be the same

never left to wilt or shrivel forgotten
on a hot dashboard
to dry out in a waterless vase
for the balance of violence and grace
Georgia, I am still grateful

don’t go to the river don’t stray too far 
can’t you hear 
her coyote cry

parents warning
she will take you
I wished that she would

I wished to be taken
into the arms of a mournful mother
to bury my face against
a soaked white dress
dripping with guilt

existing only
to love her children
the spirit of remorse

take me with you
teach me to swim
let us both stop weeping

we still sprint through the park with our tops off
with hopes of belonging to the wind
our mouths wide and grinning
joyful shrieking like banshees
ravaging silence from the siren space
within our throats

we vanish into the trees become the shadows
hardly able to speak or breathe
sides splitting – flaking bark
barking back at neighborhood dogs
howling untamed with them
a leaf-limbed pack of teenage hyenas

wolf house was haunted by the profits made by a white man
selling stories not his own even though the studio of this sprawling home
teemed with gifted artifacts and artworks

I couldn’t touch a thing in there

sage and deerskin and feathers and arrowheads
handmade dolls and hand-strung jewelry
piled in disarray collecting dust

he didn’t touch a thing there

the day that I left the pool was dry and filled with sand
some noodles and toys abandoned in the deep end
this was the place where time stood still

no one touched a thing here

years had passed since family had gone but their shadows lingered
nothing moved an inch nothing moved at all
no moving on – I watched a brilliant mind turn cold and slow and frozen

nothing can be touched here

and nothing can be reached or changed
solidified against the desert’s edge
the only living soul was me

something about here – touched me

another deadbolt sliding
keys jingling
avoidant lover opens the door
shuffles in
but keeps eyes glued to the floor
avoiding sudden movements
I am the villain again and again

I am the villain that breaks the silence
daring to ask for conversation
or even
the slightest acknowledgment
a hint of accountability
end up repeatedly receiving requests for
a little bit of time to think

of course, as any proper perpetrator
I always give them time
days weeks months go by
while they decide whether they want me
evaluate whether there is more
to be squeezed
if anything is left of me

is there an expected apology
in between the professions
of love and appreciation
swearing to the ends of breath
that I’m important to them
in the same way as AAA
happy to get paid until someone needs a tow

those keys
to my heart and home
sound flimsy when they kiss the counter
front door becomes plastic
closed behind them for the last time
they leave an empty promise to reach out soon
wondering, don’t you trust me?

I always wanted to believe that love was blind
but now I find myself scared that if it were
I would never be truly seen

I want love with eyes open with the brightness set to high
I want love that sees the peach fuzz hairs
the tattoo behind the cover-up

I want illuminated love with every light turned on and window wide
I want sun bleached love unfiltered
I want a fine lined love

sharp detailed love
a love that doesn’t hide

(TW/CW – disordered eating)

I’ve considered that I may not be as inconspicuous as I’d believed
trained myself to be a wallflower so that I could get away with

anything

when you’d leave, your absence offered me an alibi that would be left
unquestioned – the evidence disposed of, no witnesses to

anything

a habit backhandedly encouraged; suggested subtly like being handed a gun
and expected not to use it
at least – not until you use it against me when you ask : have you eaten

anything