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A poem written at sunrise.
(Sorry about the weird background noise—not sure what it was and the edited version of the file won’t upload here).
before, I was
the zodiac’s precocious
bubbles. glints in
the eyes of five year olds watching
summer skies, once upon
a somewhere. parents
told their children to reach
for me when darkness
came. i made dreams come
true. i was
eager, sure fingers; held
breath; and weight lifted
off shoulders. i was morning
rain in the desert and the
long-awaited exhale. i was
everything the world sometimes
isn’t.
i was the gooey
center and the purple pez
dispenser and the red clay
under the swingset in
Westwood. a messy miracle
of skinned knees and a brave
cry to stand the Hell back
up—the hope Mama had
for redemption—the light she
followed as she rose out
of the ash. a reminder—a bullet’s graze
next to her left temple. she
was still here. after two
babies gasped back
into twilight—slipped through
scorching metal back
into the abyss of not quite
here. that’s where she found
me. i was a push to keep
climbing—the little voice saying
“jump” and “harder” and “no—not yet.”
i whispered sweet
nothings of the
saved—the lies
of her childhood –that love is
worth it—that it exists
here in the wrinkles
of age. here—in this
smithereen heart. dig.
i am here,
still. I live
on a graveyard and pay
homage to your reflection—in my face. I am
your blue eyes and your gritted teeth. I am
failure. I am good intentions and one last
try and the only one left
standing. here. i am
your daughter. i get
the Hell back up. i dig.
and I find
you everywhere. i am
gasping, and i am
waiting. and i need
you, still, in this
shrapnel world. i am
breathing inside held breath,
and I am chasing
hailstorms. i am the phoenix
in the gooey center—dispensing
my heart and flinging
it at Daddy—as he bowls
with God in Heaven. i am
reaching, still, because
you can’t.
—AIM, 4/29/11
i am the salty mist
of God’s tears hitting
baked sand; the innocence of April
lilacs at 6 am on a sleepy street
in Westwood; blistered corn, swathed
in sweet butter during dog day
lullabies. i am cinnamon bark,
nutmeg cloves, and ginger
roots drowning
in tepid Bordeaux.
i am bing cherries
in August, punched with lime; iron
in blood; cotton candy burnt
by a sculptor’s blowtorch.
i am the shrill wail of a freight
train in the distance. i am the screen
door slamming because she is
home; the birds singing
to Fogg from the willow
tree; the motor whining
in your Mazda as the thunder broke
over Monument Valley—how you
giggled in the monsoon. and hail
shattering my windshield.
i am purple velvet swaddling
couch cushions with
cacti poking legs—piercing—
ripping holes, but we sink
deeper. i am Cleo’s
breath on cold foreheads. i am
the leather of my
Mama’s face.
i am blueberries—sweet
and discrete—ripe
bruises; sunshine fields; little
girls with fuschia blush; golden,
glowing sunsets; and brown
flannel.
i am the hush of Sunday mornings
at the lake. i am his heartbeat before
he’s awake. i am the clatter
and clang of dishwashers. i am
the tide and ripple of
streams in Estes. i am ashes
descending Never Summer. i am
flapping hawk wings in Big
Sur. i am whispers
told to Niagra.
it will all be
okay. he said it
to me like he
meant it, but i could
see in his face
that he didn’t
know. i wanted him
to know, but i—
as always—knew
better…knew that
this was some sort of sincerity
i lacked. i loved
him. in that tragic way
we sometimes do. in
that way that causes
splintering.
like cracking a pigeon’s breastbone
during a tough
dissection.
put some elbow into it. and then
collapse. faster than
you think.
like a perfect life
unraveling.
i smiled. that tight kind
that happens when i’m
rescuing someone. blinked
hard and sank. inside,
not where he could
see. i was always the one
who stood tall when
my knees were buckling.
a tug, a squeeze, his arm
on my wrist. i shook it clean.
i would be alright. the belief
mattered more than the ache
in my chest. i felt light and warm like
bloody feathers
floating a gusty
blizzard. again.
that room, now
so empty and
clean. finally, mine
again. i watched his
feet make clicks and
his hand turn
the knob. felt the soft
down of her head and her
bright eyes watching
mine. he didn’t.
i didn’t
get up. didn’t
open the door. didn’t
kiss him goodbye. i
don’t do this. i
don’t—goodbye is not
in here. goodbye implies
choice, and that was not
mine. i just
watched, like i had
so many others, and
stared straight ahead—waiting
for something i’ll never
understand.
i shook
at first, grabbed
the phone, and stared
at it. watched
my world closely
to see if it
would boil. it
didn’t. i could
still breathe. so, i stood
and locked the door.
i didn’t
believe him when he
walked away. it was just
another bruise to nurse
and examine. another
indication of what is
wrong with alma. another reason
why not. another not good
enough. i didn’t
want to.
instead, i kept
my eyes shut and
the rooms dark. i sat
and waited for something
else. i let the wounds weep
on 16th, and i held on
to someone else till
the room stopped
spinning.
and then, i got up
again. by myself. i
stitched the contusions
into resilient quilts, and i
kept myself warm. and
it was.
—AIM, all rights reserved.
Written on no sleep at 6 am this morning. Took about two minutes.
this
we laugh
as the record
player scratches
the vinyl of “put your
right foot in” hokey-
pokey madness. the green-
gray linoleum of our living
room acts as rink
to our socked
feet. and Dixie watches
with wide-eyed alien
curiosity. your baby
blue lasers twinkle
behind cat eyes, and he is
the tallest man on
Earth. i put my feet on his
shoes, and we waltz
to suspicious minds. and
then, i fly—like i know
how—and every fear
i’ve ever had finds its
place on his rickety
shoulders. he tells me
to touch the sky, and
somehow, i believe
i can. and somehow,
i do.
—aim, 6.15.10, all rights reserved.
(i miss you, daddy).
the twenty-five year exhale
when i was itty-bitty, my
Mama told me that
thunderclaps were my Daddy’s
lucky strikes…so i wouldn’t
be afraid when the
lightning came. i used to
picture Daddy in his brown
flannel—hair askew—smile half-cocked—
bowling with God on a
fluffy, white cloud. sometimes,
i still do. and it makes
the Boogeyman inside me
laugh. when i’m looking
for my keys, most
days, i yell, “Daddy,
give it up.” and two
minutes later, i’ll
find them in the microwave—
next to my mascara and a can of
peas. it’s his way
of reminding me
he kept his promise.
his body’s gone, but he didn’t
leave.
late at night, sometimes, when
i can’t sleep, i
ask him about Mama
and Papa and Terry and Everett and all
the ones who left me
behind. i ask him if i’ll ever
find someone to love me
half as much as he did. i ask
him for monkeys and paid bills
and all the dreams i never wished
for when i was six—because i was
too busy dying, too. and i tell
him, “one day, i’ll ride
a bike. one day, i’ll be
the one you knew i could
be. one day, i’ll be
worthy.” but,
for now, i’m just
the girl without
parents, trying not
to skin her knees. and he
will make sure i’ll always laugh
when i finally find my keys.
—aim, 6.15.10, all rights reserved.
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