The Poetry Marathon

“Talk into my bullet hole.  Tell me I’m fine.” – Denis Johnson

if my wounds could talk

i would give them a jar to speak into

so i could screw a lid on tight and my

skin / sinew / beating heart would be safe from the bullet

oh to be empty and complete in purpose like a hole

that doesn’t need to be filled, tell /

yell / scream into the hollowed out space of me

just say i’m

here / still / fine

“the leafbud straggles forth / toward the frigid light of the airshaft / this is faith / the pale extension of a day” – Adrienne Rich

i can not speak, the

words stay curled, a leafbud

waiting for the sun, my voice straggles

from within, banging back and forth

the reverberation echoing toward

a locked gate, the

the key between my fingers, frigid

aching for light

a warmth i know nothing of

faith is like the

pupil dilated from the shock of an airshaft

the eyes screaming this

this is

faith

knowing that the

sun never sets, becomes pale

yes but in truth is an extension

of

the moon, a bond, a thread, a

promise, never broken by day

a quiet confidence

growing

along with her stature

like a graceful colt

she is coming into her own

i’m scared for her

excited

anxious

on the brink of turning twelve

it’s a bridge to

fall off

or leap from

i think she will

cross it with long strides

her back to the rest of us

watching

bravery blooming like a lotus

the sun on her face

sometimes nothing makes sense

you put one foot in front

of the other

brave brave brave

phone lines get tangled

around words left unsaid

a connection is missed

static

your heart yearns

to speak

be heard

relief

a splash of water

on your tired face

not recognizing

yourself in the mirror

knowing that it’s you

disappointed that it’s not

a friend staring back

whats the

point

it’s been worn down to

dullness

mundane

grey boredom

i can’t give a voice to

a being I don’t understand

offered generously

by strangers

who have no reason

to save my life

other than

perhaps

their life was once

saved

and they want to

make an offering

to the ones who

kept them alive

we should all be so fortunate

to have a Rilke in our life

writing us letters in the forest

alone

applying the oxygen mask

paddles to our heart

“I am choosing not to suffer uselessly / and not to use her / I choose to love / this time / for once / with all of my intelligence” – Adrienne Rich

she and I

terrified, i suppose i am

we seem to be beyond choosing

to be together or to not

is beyond our faculties, to

make a choice, a decision to suffer

i often find prodding my brain uselessly

to be a mere habit

and also a comfort, not

because it is comfortable but it is satisfying to

the way that a hunter tortures a creature with no defense mechanisms to use

that’s how i am with my brain some days (most days) without her

she and I

a life to choose

our life begs us to

to choose each other is to love

to love this

to embrace this time

when we discover it is what we are made for

just try it once

your soul’s mirror to laugh with

cry, hold, accept: all

it is what we are made of

i do believe, i choose her with all of my

intelligence

my dear one

you have such a large stack of books on top

of you

how did you end up crushed

at the very bottom

proof

evidence

that i have not held you in far too long

neglect

and

i’ve gone unfed

here we go

i got you now

take me by the hand

through the naked woods of vermont

the caverns of my heart

she hides my keys

when i try to leave

heart breaks

to not always stay

i’d move into the attic

sleep on scratchy carpet

choking 3rd floor air

to be able to

bound down the stairs to her room

morning

first thing

eat breakfast out of bowls

on the couch

silently smiling

the rasp in her voice

her choice of cartoons

to be there always

never leaving

i wouldn’t have to take

snapshots with my mind

to remember

the way she pours milk

the smooth scar on her knee

the freckle under her eye

under the shadow

of branches

low steady strong

to sit with a similar soul

human or bird

is a special kind of company

for a brief moment

you share

a breath smile heartbeat

until the wind returns

and you part

for separate worlds

or bedrooms

rescued from a Brooklyn street

a bum leg

scared heart

scooped up

in every way

sleeping in the closet

crying to no one

but I hear him

i will hear him

always

my reason for climbing

out of bed

every day

twelve years later

fluffy paws coated

leftover chicken

from second breakfast

green eyes full

untold stories

his very own universe