Storage Haiku #1
I've always kept a
storage space, holding some things
dear things do not die
Mad that my body betrayed me
with its excited response
to the familiar sound of him
calling me
Baby
taking me back to another time
when that word pouring
out of his mouth
became warm rain washing away
the ice fortress of good sense
that protected my heart
pour yourself
into the pink glass
for when i’m thirsty
in night’s hollow center
red lights and cracking trees
awake like me
the air is thick with
curtain winter
my pelvis is my basket
heavy with the syrup
“that’s the dream”
a house on the bluff
some kind of monster floats
out there in the bay
brittle heron leg
freestanding on the shelf
by the table
you may eat
fish & chips,
drink margaritas
from cans
handle it
or go away
what feels like messing up. sometimes forgetting,
sometimes being afraid. over mixing, and never
the right apparatus to carry the cake through a
hot crowd. dense and white, full of nectarines
and strawberries, covered in cream and marigolds,
so heavy, so melting, the whole thing slid around so I
set it in the bramble while we waited to sing.
orange zest blender cake at the beach where
the woman stood with baby shoes but no baby,
where it always feels like someone might emerge from the woods,
puncture the saccharine scene with a hex or a shot.
quiche at the housewarming, J + I stopped en route to take selfies
because we looked pretty. red shirt I loved with the sweetheart pin,
my black flower dress with holes that don’t shut.
this month chocolate for grief, for winter, for the unthinkable,
skinny and dense, 2 layers, mom’s coastal blackberries
slathered between.
dry and put away the dishes
sit up with a shotgun
abandon the idea that seduced you
let yr hands be tied
send a screenshot
move your ass around
fry eggs
add oil
add cinnamon
make a meme
grind cardamom
knock on the door
feel desire move
stretch
take a picture
type up yr nightmares
be a canyon
be so cheesy
say “cool” and “thank you”
relate everything
shake the jars
burn the garlic
say boo boo
knead the poison out
brush yr hair
bundle up
go outside
skin racing like an ant farm
in the little digital hand mirror
accidental simulation
of maybe something close
to how much really goes on
potential to blush, flush
in red painted bands that holler
you’re drunk!
before I feel it
am I old, am I young
do I care
gutted by loss
of youth and you
I was sad, falling on loop
and it kept not being right
leaving fights to splash
water on my face
trying to cool towards
laughing, posing
secrets barely
back
For my great great aunt Leona,
who came from Russia after her mother
kicked her out for losing her virginity, who lived to be 100,
single in NYC with two plastic hips.
who didn't really care for children,
but called me cookie.
what is within you
and what is entirely
the upside down cake
of the first few drafts
of the promise?
pineapple baked to
a devil’s syrup
~ wicked good ~
bring the hammer down
little maniac dance to
make friends laugh
at least link up
everything keeps on
toilet paper trail
when the wind bursts through
poem written about futures
already so irrelevant
my boot in mud
the grey sky and road
I like to drink from a clear cup
to remember what i’m drinking
Wear a mirror suit
and keep moving,
withhold information
about oneself.
Don't stop and
don't stop long
enough to
repeat reflections.
Beam multitudes back
make a joke
out of systems,
make no joke at all.
Let information wash
over you, halfway
across the road
you may stop.
You are scrubbed to
pieces now the horse is
winning now how
has it always won.
Watch yourself driving
in a darkened shop front
let the ensuing bricks throw
the people, propped, into relief
We'll be hearing the snow sound tonight.
Seven years of not understanding a single sound.
Perhaps even eight, perhaps it's been eight.
I was upstairs under the bed earlier, being scary,
being a snow sound myself, Long Island Railroad ghost,
outside I was being group-stalked or there were helicopters,
the FBI was there and so were all of you, who I encountered
in the forest in the worst throes of puberty
when my mother gave me the better room out of guilt, well,
this guy won't get the better room out of me, no way,
and neither will any of you, blaring snow sound all night long
I'm hiding, I'm a monster, I'm down here,
I cleaned out under the bed because of the baby and also
to become personally frightening I was hissing and going
"bam!" "bam!" and then the storm came, coincidence?
Also I can't stop crying.
Last night I found a fire eater whose brain was lost,
all the people who formed the fabric of the things
we used to laugh about they're all being group-stalked,
there are helicopters, the FBI, and all of you
no longer believing in herbal medicines or convergences
we're all hiding under the bed it's not safe to listen to Coast to Coast
anymore, there's no more bigfoot he's been replaced
the snow sound is part of it but January 31st you look beautiful to me,
I believe in general deviousness but not like this, not when it means
we can't go to the herbal doctor anymore and
we can't trust a soothing voice, like Julie's, what does Julie believe now,
probably something entirely false,
I don't believe in fairies, I don't believe in fairies, I don't believe in fairies
(staring at my computer for seven years, perhaps eight, no, ten, fifteen, but honestly not quite twenty)
oh except twenty because I'm 36 now so twenty years,
but what is the snow sound? Does it keep the trains safe in the storm?
January 31st is beautiful to me, inside for three days like I've always wanted,
cleaning under the bed and having no beliefs
watching the beliefs pile up around me.
the sharp spring feeling on the porch
the plush interiors
the deep crook beneath my back ribs
where you imagined a stone hand
cupped to hold the weight
of lifelong bracing
this old rejected love
its place in the cupboard behind the jumbo bags
of basmati and faded coral lentils
the fig leaf electric pale
the generous jack in the box memories
that rainstorm at sleep
you powerless in my undershirt
pine cones in my skirt pockets
skipping stairs with tiny stride
in the almost danger twilight
and the birds from my window fighting
flashing their rosy underwings
the heaping plate
the sweet and bitter medicines
the never clean of life but also
the will to straighten, sweep
let some sweet air
through
trust + fear water
trust + fear dirt
trust crushes, stars, songs
don’t trust the store
trust the oven more than the stove
trust light + scent
dreams less
don’t trust the internet
or even many books
trust babies, small birds, all bugs
trust + fear cats
don’t trust cars
trust some celebrities
trust mystical technologies
trust some of my ancestors
(but don’t know which ones)
trust + fear forests
trust kitchen tables
don’t trust my sewing machine
trust thread + dark spaces
trust them to transform
trust smoke
trust + fear fire
trust my neck + below
don’t trust my neck + above
don’t trust teeth, or skin
trust temperature, hair
trust old things
trust new less
trust + don’t trust sleep
trust + fear trust
trust dying
trust trying
solipsistic kittens
eat french fries
for dinner
i eat chocolate
for breakfast,
it’s true
unabashedly,
i do.
i am not angry
with angels,
nor furious
with devils,
only wanting
some reunion
of the various
shades of being.
who hurt who first,
and who didn’t do
what the other one
wanted and who
is reeling beyond
measure?
it is a treasure
to reckon with
what was never
tended to before,
and yet there are
a dozen reasons
to go running in
the other direction.
i want protection,
and i also want
a freedom so vast
i can see it for miles,
and that which i can’t
i can trust in my
bones to their
depths and beyond.
it is not too much
to ask.
the task is:
eat what you
need to and save
the rest or donate
it or make pies
and salads and
give them to those
in need or your
neighbors too
busy to cook
or your mother
who bore you
or your friends
with newborn
babies or your
ancestors visiting
in your sleep
and taking tastes
while you lay
dreaming.
no one is screaming
but our voices are
furious and loud
without sounding,
NO! i will not
stand for this,
i want noise!
boys, boys,
move out of
the way, there’s
a new toy in town,
and she wears the crown.
bow down.
or at least do
as she says
and take a
deep breath,
come on, it’s
good for you.
i am not fishing
only wishing we
had enough flesh
to feed millions
oh wait we do
and grains and fruit
there is a problem
with distribution
there is a problem
with greed
there is a problem
with waste, indeed.
take heed.
what we need
is a steed so
powerful it can
cross continents
invisible delivery
like santa claus
on his best days,
who has seen him
outside of the mall?
i want it all.
angel kisses
and twinkles
of fire between
my toes
rain and snow
mist, mist,
and a thousand
days the shade
of gray known
only to the belly
of the softest
turtledove nesting
over a brood of eggs
warm and ready
to be born.
do not scorn
me for learning
other ways
yours were
not for me
and so i shed
them like a snake
in heat, swallowing
edible gemstones
of those more
suitable for my make.
i’m not sorry if you quake.
you simply have to
learn anew, and it isn’t
my work to teach you,
though i do, eye dew
i am tired of convincing
i am tired of your wincing
create a new library
dedicate yourself to
reading what you haven’t
by those whose stories
you’ve ignored and then
we’ll talk.
until then, it’s the weather,
or bust!
but shimmer, i must.
