well, i tried to tell you. but it did not work. so i just stood in front of you instead. 🎈
i coax not from the fountain
your loyal tongue lapping up the gelatin
spread thin on platters for banquet.
ten - ten we fingered and toed
to a clapping hand of an old gentleman
seated on the bench. the atmosphere.
we will not debate the ketubbah we vowed
in the darkness.
you choose to bathe in the roman spa
while i, in the stream near the cottage,
wash my hair in privacy. barefoot
wrapped in cotton, walking up the path,
by the fire, cross legged,
i recite the words i memorised
spun like a web into my mind,
she knitted me sweaters with the codes,
and i wore them. the fibers humming
to my tissues, the waters of my small frame
remembering.
so you, there. and i here.
and i think the final batch of hand pies
are finished baking.
so you will do that. and i will cast stones
on the rug. for.... the abyss.
ⴲ.
coins in my sock
coins in my sock
i skipped down the lane to the grocer.
mother bid me fetch a leg of lamb
roots and garlic, greens from the garden
and wild onions on the hill.
and coins in my sock i swung around
the pillory stocks singing my song,
blythe.
coins in my sock, not on, in my hand.
a rich woman i was in my mind,
cantor to the temple of the day
crooning.
coins in my sock to the rhythm.
ruthlessly, he struck me in the face,
and coins in my sock, clattered to the ground,
my eyes glazing,
the final image of crimson blood
on the white silk sock,
my coins on the gravel.
no longer held.
socked.
i am now where the wild onions bloom
each spring.
when passover begins,
and mother needs lamb
for the table.
ⴲ.
figment of the corporeal punishment
invoked against me, to hasten
melted.
i became an alcoholic in the depth of the evenings
when usually tucked away beneath
a newspaper or folio - an emptiness rang.
the sound of a cloche in the space,
when the pause slices the misty morning
before - bronze - struck.
actually just retreating into my dragon,
straight spine against the onslaught
of without.
dry and sober, my drunkenness
bequeathed unto the altar of memory
and after the abyss chewed
my lips raw, i began to grieve in whole
in part and in fortresses slit
with rampart covens for aiming true.
incantations, of me.
gone now, and the time is kept by a church tower
i will not see.
the fields peppered with soldiers
reenacting battle for the silent dead marching
our streets. and no one says:
the definition is slaughter.
our eyes tased closed. poisoned with branches
bare - they say it is crazy.
so i drink. well water.
ⴲ.
once upon a time,
we all told stories imagining
no stories had ever been told,
so they could be understood.
and only after we had
told the stories,
screaming to be heard,
did we know
everyone
must tell the stories their own way,
so they understand.
and then we discovered it is the stopping
of storytelling our own tales
which pinches off our heartstrings.
selling the scramble to tell
the stories of them
they who
over there
whence and wherefore.
once upon a time:
i died.
and the stories stopped.
so standing in the dirt with sticks,
they built empires.
but said nothing.
gathering acorns,
placed on concrete
so everyone could see the bounty -
no touching.
say nothing.
just stare.
at the stacks.
once upon a time: i began again.
ⴲ.
there fits a hint of real in the freshness
snapping in the pop of moss
unpicked
my heaven a sort of lawn,
muslin for the afternoons
and i sat frosty under your gaze.
snap the elastic in protest
but the corner will not cooperate
against the pull no matter how you tug
at my seams
for i broke in stitches
one by one frayed.
unsewn.
undone, heralded against the dawn
they ate me quick
before found.
devoured cheeks full,
mumbling crumbs.
not me, mother.
and from within, i fermented.
like the heat under blankets
as i writhe in the fire of you.
alone.
ⴲ.
i write in the pages of your mind
lest the aches of the days
grow lengthy against the sinew
strung on the lyre of enamelled marrow.
i am amplification
because you felt me within the hollow
down in the vale of verse and appendages,
gangly and dearthing,
i become the infant in your arms when no longer
held i birthed. sprung from the head
like athena with her spear shaking
bacon grease from 25 years ago
solid in your refrigerator door.
for potatoes.
i remember. when you do not.
but perhaps i do not wish
to recall. with you now.
as i age, i also remember the pain.
you pretended was normal.
ⴲ.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Write_amplification?wprov=sfti1
kill the artist - take the keys.
to be forever adrift hence:
for the spark of that lick
against a mind rotting in boredom
taken
feasts on the killer.
how dare you
take our time together.
and the lid snaps shut.
and your finger catches
the slam.
and you blame the damn box -
stupid hinges.
and lamenting the bones,
singing of how
the box stole away
your chances -
with her, your love.
her murderer.
ⴲ.
the words of injury.
the human sprays them like spittle
across the neighbourhood streets
so flippantly, forgetting
they are all some have - as their weapons.
their afghans crocheted by their grandmother
the defence against the elements.
wrapped.
she prayed into the hooks and loops,
rocking gently. bonanza on the old tube tv,
a bowl of milky ways on her armchair table.
copper wrappers.
i, lain slaughtered in a pool of verbs
but no actions extended
in hands warm and strong.
there i sit the blood cooling,
my beating pumping arteries
slowing.
my will
seeping like vapours from my mind
reaching for anything real.
just words, they hiss.
but it is all i have.
before my lips crack in dehydration
like sliced oranges left on a screen in the sun.
they are all there is. yet you throw knives.
ⴲ.
i am salt, rubbed into the bottom
of a mug, with a bent finger.
the boiling water poured, the watching
grains disappear.
smelling of the sea in the back of my throat
as the gargle like herbs from the garden -
rosemary sage clary and cilantro.
my brown eyes greening up again
like a parched lawn of clover
resurrecting after the october rains.
i revive.
the sting of the sea. the swell of the sea.
in my glands.
to be held afloat
by contact solution,
is something they suggest at the drug store.
where they used to have soda fountains
and women with hot roller curls
sipping black cows and cherry fizz.
the egg salsa sandwiches
on pink and white plates
-
i am salt.
ⴲ.