The Poetry Marathon

I used to love getting hiccups

I liked the rhythmic push-and-pull in the chest

but now can’t stand being jerked about

Just another of the many things that have lost their joy as I’ve grown

(Hour 24)

It’s been a long road,

upon which I’ve scraped raw the pads of my feet

over rough stone and potholed streets

The roads’ end is still tucked determinedly in the horizon

I don’t know how much farther is left to go

But I suppose I ought to keep moving

(Hour 23)

I’m scraping the bottom of the barrel here,

wanting for words that dance out of my grasp

and thoughts that flutter away with a mocking smile.

Every molecule within me screeches for sleep,

despite being so close

(Hour 22)

Every time I begin to write about my ancestors I end up empty.

I appreciate the skills they’ve passed down.

I have their strong hands,

catered for creation,

I know the history of their endurance

But their silence came at cost:

the trauma guided them,

the privilege enabled them,

the blood elevated them.

The greatest burdens they’ve left me either drip in malignant pride

or a willing ignorance of a devastating magnitude.

(Hour 20)

It is the first thing in a long time

keeping my head buoyant above water

I’m pleased to be able to share it with you

(Hour 20)

The worst part of all the fuss

is never knowing when the circus comes to play.

The whirling carousel vertigo and warped fun-mirror migraines

post no schedule and schedule no warning

and leave no room for proper function in the ring,

despite the ever-increasing demand for perfect attention.

If I faint before the audience, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

(Hour 19)

I’m not sure how I survived this state of being for so many years,

especially as a developing young woman,

drifting back and forth between the verge of sleep and being spoken at.

I didn’t allow myself naps until college, and by then I was so sleep depraved

I spent most of my free time catching up on all I’d missed

and now spend more time wandering the plots of my dreamlands

than fostering empty goals in the woken world.

(Hour 18)

(or, The Menagerie pt. 4)

Cast of Players

Nugget, head and patriarch of the Frat Tank, an all-business no-goofin’ mobster father of Whisker Town

Coco, a lone-hamster who prefers her space and will fight to keep it– even against her own blood

their children:

Blade, favorite son of the Frat Tank, maker of trouble and picker of fights

Butter, the sweet-talking timid son with a torn ear as per result of an altercation at a young age

Pip, the rapscallion black horse (hamster?) of the Frat Tank known for his artistry in escapism, theatrics, and mimicry

Peppa, keen first-born daughter of the Hammyhold, takes strongly after her mother but doted upon her younger sister

Peony, friendly but timid after the abuses of her mother; relies heavily upon Peppa for security

Baby, shipped off and away to finishing school with a foreign family to presume a new identity

[Rocky,] the aspiring son renouned for his daring, found dead in his youth after having ventured beyond Hammyhold

[Bug,] Rocky’s closest companion and adventurer, found dead beside his brother in the venture beyond Hammyhold

(Hour 17)

Where is the dusk song of the frogs?

They used to be so punctual, heralding the oncoming autumn.

The biting bugs have arrived en masse, but the evenings remain cricket-quiet.

Maybe it’s my own impatience,

but I’ve grown tired of the lonely heat.

(Hour 16)

In Mexico, we’d buy goats before for our large family parties.

My cousins and I would crowd around them to pet their soft haunches,

not fully conscious that these acts of adoration would be the last of their affection.

And then we were ushered away to be distracted somewhere else,

unknowing the creatures we’d just begun to love upon

now instead were filling our bellies in warm welcome and family reunited.

At what they deemed an appropriate age, I finally witnessed the pink-and-porcelain marbling

hung from the rafters of the tin-roof car park and the whirls of blood that drained beneath.

It felt some sort of offense.

Not because the goats every summer had been loved and butchered and savored,

but because the tradition of it all had been shrouded in the unnecessary cloak of secrecy.

(Hour 15)