Eyeful of Mountain, Mouthful of River

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Gonna try to follow the official prompts again, here: https://www.napowrimo.net/

Past NaPo years:

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1

Half-Remembered Book

There are two boys, or, there is one boy
and a girl. The boy who is definitely a boy
is blind, and the girl who might be a boy
might not exist at all. They are best friends.
They live in a town with cobblestones and
tall shale-shingled rooftops perfect for running
across under the stars. On the edge of town,
a desert, a band of urchin thieves. They might
be named after their best thievery skill. Something
like Lightfinger, Pocketswift, and Lockbane. Someone
with a sweet face. What’s beyond the desert? A castle,
maybe? The edge of the map? All that is known
is the desert, the city, the stars, and the boy.
He is clever and witty,

and so he saves the day.

2

Spring Break with a Friend

Trill of redwing blackbird while geese mutter-honk, disapproving
our approach. The soles of our shoes, soft and light for running,
roll against the dirt-gravel trail with a rhythmic crunch. We are
under the sun, within the wind, beyond the reach of the trucks
we hear rumbling down some distant highway. Look, a snake;
listen, a woodpecker. A normal hike, but this time, you are here,
and the lone pine at the center of the lake seems lonelier.
This time, you’re here, and the wild swans don’t outnumber
me, in their little pair of two. Soon we’ll return to my apartment
you keep mistaking for a cabin in the woods. We’ll cook dinner
in the kitchen. It’s simple. Come night, we’ll talk till our eyes
feel the weight of the day, and you’ll lay your body across
a raft full of air–the mattress we set up in my living room.
Tomorrow we’ll fill our mouths with sweetness and our spines
with the gentle rocking of a six hour road trip. You’ll meet my old
friends I kept telling you about. I’ll point at the forest on the other side
of the river, tell you bald eagles nest there. I’ll take you to Sweet Creek
where we can listen to the waterfall. I’ll drive us through Canada
where the houses look smooth and shiny while the sun sets.
I swear that you’ll get it: eyeful of mountain, mouthful of river.

3
Touching Heaven

We strike a candle and against the flame shines the bronze of a blindfolded belltower. We slit our stomachs and pour out all that we swallowed. The bell’s clapper, like a tongue against my ribs, comes clanking to the floor. You are rich with quarter notes after eating the hymnbooks page by page. I want to trust that our wounds will heal with the power of God, but in this chapel, Christ has been bleeding for decades. I want to trust that we’ll survive. I want to trust you. You have ink on your teeth and my mouth is full of rust. The foundations of this building rest on a bed of skulls and I think they are jealous that we still have flesh, but you think they are like stones. The stone floor is cold and the candle cannot warm us. I am a bell lying on the cold stone floor, dreaming of Prometheus. Maybe I will tear out my own liver every day. Maybe then my body will heal. Maybe then you will be able to burn with incandescent light.

4
Small, New Animal




these worms twice as long as my apartment
i think about them obsessively i want
to invite them over and ask if they are
comfortable can i get them anything
and when they ask to leave i will tell them
this isn’t the kind of place with an exit
however gracefully you writhe it won’t
change the fact that you’re here now
cooped up with a songbird who never
even learned to rise up early and catch you

The worms shoot poison-tipped harpoons out of their brains.

i think i am in love with the cage
or the old tiger within i love that he
could kill me in an instant but
wouldn’t even bother i think
i’d like to be the kind of creature
made of stringy muscle
and with knives in his mouth
and hands i think i could learn
to become metal like the cage
i think maybe if people came
to see me i would like it and maybe
if someone fed me from their hand
i wouldn’t think to bite it

They always shrink when they die.

i live like a secret where no one
knows me all bricked up like
i’m heathcliff’s wife or fortunato
i think everyone who lives alone
fears a death that no one notices
except perhaps the starving cat
but i don’t have a pet like that

Some can break up into hundreds of fragments.

last night i dreamed i found a way

to leave and it was like a gravel path but

sometimes it’s like a river and still

other times the way out is like a ladder

that i don’t know whether i should climb

up or down but either way i’m always

dreaming of escape sometimes i fear

that every bit of me might come alive

and flee my lungs leaving in the night



i’m pacing in the kitchen waiting
for something to happen the false
coolness of the air conditioner against
the chocolate pudding stench
of summer rising through the floor
i need to go outside but there is nothing
for me out there waiting just like
there is nothing inside for me waiting
but the heat or maybe my own bones
lining the bottoms of my feet

They build their houses from the slime of their own bodies.

i pull bones from my bones i sink
into my sinking and self-address
get well soon cards that i wish
would never reach me so i don’t
have to make space for them
on my fridge maybe i will eat
them instead i swear these
wretched walls would be better
leveled flat and painted red

5
It was all in your head anyway

bird nest lying in the snow
cold candles

I lived somewhere no one knew me
worm under door mat

floating in the middle of the lake
unable to see the shore

my car was towed during a snowstorm
your bike was stolen again

grinding the penny into the press
spent all my quarters on a toy that didn’t work

dropped my whole dinner on the floor
then knelt beside it and wept

returned to the park to find
my favorite tree had been cut down

pile of sawdust next to it
no notes of apology or explanation

the magnolia froze before it bloomed
the sky is dark and no one is thinking of you

6
the worms have come again

the worms have come again
dressed to the nines in pinstripes
brandishing invitations printed
on creamy white cardstock
that I’m sure I never sent
it doesn’t really matter
the worms are here now
clattering their paperweights
on the table and bragging
about the glassblowing class
they all took last November
I do not ask how they blew
glass when they don’t have
lungs because I’m not
entirely sure if that’s true
and I don’t want to be rude
it seems the worms are here
to stay because they’ve undressed
themselves and draped
their long fleshy bodies
over my radiator and towel racks
they are making obscene
noises of pleasure that
I am trying to ignore
as I continue in my pursuit
of a quiet evening alone
I wash my dishes and listen
to their supercilious chatter
about worm society matters
that I am too disinterested
to fully understand
something about clitellum
care and whose daughter
turned out to be a clone
when I turn out the lights
to try to get some rest
they don’t mind because
they don’t have eyes
they carry on carousing
until I’ve fallen asleep
and in the morning find
the floor is covered in
a spaghetti network of
dried slime trails

7
Postcard Ghazal

Sick in bed, I read your postcards and crave heated honey:
I have the kind of scratching cold you only treat with honey.

“When you come I’ll pack a lunch, carrots nestling next to apple slices
and your favorite hearty sandwich on slices of wheat and honey.”

I like to look at pictures of Greece, with its turquoise
roofs and water. My mouth waters at raw Cretan honey.

“Trekking ancient Edessa at sunrise, breath illuminated in the cold
like golden fleece, the waterfall appeared as sheets of honey.”

On the days when all I have is a crinkled fiver for gas pump one,
my eye always snags on round lollypops and small treats of honey.

“The moorland is alive with frogs calling out under stars. Here,
the land is full of riches: heather, plover, peat, and honey.”

I treasure each penstroke of “Dear Rook,” (though secretly I wish
you might change it to something sappy: “my sweet, my honey.”)

8
1866

I think about it more than I’d like to admit:
a young cowboy in America–dirty, scuffed,
and taking care of the herd, riding across
dry summer fields on a black quarter horse.
To the west–to the west so far it’s East–
an old samurai, one of many in the last
generation of an ancient order soon
to be disbanded and stripped of power,
sits outside his estate under summer
stars. The crickets chirp and sing.
He runs a hand across the Satoyama
grass and watches the horse’s ear
flick with sleep. The cowboy does
not have much except what he carries
with him. He carries a secret love
inside his chest that fills his lungs
day in day out with hope and shame.
The samurai has learned to dwell
in shame and anger and has built
a monument to bitterness but that
is elsewhere. Everything is elsewhere
but for here. Above the two of them,
they have the cloudless sky. Beside
them they have a velvet-flanked
companion that dreams of softer
grass and sweets snuck in fondness.
Inside them, the vital air passes,
as if from one’s lungs to the other's.

9
Ode to the Textbook

O tome filled with all the answers,
sit squarely at the center of my desk.
Bask in sunlight, precious text!
Let it warm your sage pages.
I lift you gently, feel your heft,
angle you carefully, as if somehow
your words could pour out
onto the ground and be lost.
I see you and know that I
am in a phase of learning.
I hear my teacher’s voice
exhorting me to open you.
But what of beauty? What of
the uncracked spine you wear?
Dare I disturb the silvery veneer
of dust built up over months
of reverence? Dare I wipe away
such a badge of grace and majesty?
I do not. You will stay perfect
and pristine, placed just so
upon my desk, a monument
to $149 well spent.

10
slow news day

dog on the fence post dog on the run
dog on the television shooting a gun
dog in the dahlias dog at the deli
dog goes to canada dog shows its belly
dog head empty and dog belly full
dog chews rawhide till dog’s teeth dull
dog in the canyon dog barks at birds
dog sopping wet with a mouthful of words
dog on the radio tells it like it is
polyglot dog kissing dog math whiz
look to the trees there’s dogs on the top
look at the sheriff with a dog buddy cop
dog in a scuba suit dog is a sinner
dog is now the youngest powerball winner
journal dog journaling dog introspection
look at the water see your own dog reflection
dog in your art class out of burnt sienna
and on june third dog’ll meet you in Vienna
dog on the powerlines dog on the phone
dog looking up at you dog in your home

11
The Robber Bridegroom's Bride

Turn back, turn back, young bride,
for a murderer lives inside!
-"The Robber Bridegroom"

We enter the woods against our will,
bare trees scraping the sky until it bleeds.
Our dress gets caught on briars of course.
Although we’d like to just return home,
we know stories never go that way.
We are hoping for 7 short men perhaps,
but know they’d never live in twisted woods
like these. No, these are witch’s woods,
or the forest of an evil king with six awful sons,
or the domain of a vengeful goddess
with four demonic sons: the sons
are the worst. They always have
their way. Maybe there will be
a wolf. Maybe we will just get eaten
and it will be over. Maybe we won’t
have to be bound into slavery
for years until some passing prince
takes an interest, won’t have to watch
other women tortured before us. Maybe
when we reach the doorstep of the robber
who intends to break a wedding promise
so he can chop up and eat us,
there will be a caged bird that sings
a warning and we will listen for once.
Maybe this time, we will turn around
at the threshold and open the cage.

12
When Wishing Still Worked

January:
The water is full of metal, so fill your mouth with the taste of iron
and remember this will protect you from the fairies.

February:
They feed you God and fairytales. They want you to be a princess: graceful,
meek, and quiet. You want to be the wolf with a belly full of stones
as smooth as fresh bread. Big eyes, big teeth, all snug in granny’s bed.

March:
There’s a real, actual white crow that lives in your neighborhood.
You try to summon it with trinkets left on your window sill: marbles,
buttons, and coins. Here and there, a peanut, a few kernels of corn.

April:
You’re trapped again, locked up in your room tonight. You stare
down through the window at the street below, but you are no Rapunzel.
At least you get to leave sometimes. At least it’s only two stories up.

May:
You think if you sit still enough in the backyard, deer might approach.
If you sing sweetly, maybe they’ll eat flowers offered from your palm.

June:
You position your head so the moonlight pours into your pupil, hoping
it will turn your iris silver or your blood magic, maybe turn you crazy or werewolf.
You consider falling in love with the moon and are half-convinced that you have.



12.5
When Wishing Isn’t Enough

July:
You have grown. Rent is due, but you’ve lost the knack of spinning straw
into gold and no prince ever saved someone from debt-collectors.

August:
Sailing down the highway in your orange 2002 PT Cruiser--nicknamed
The Pumpkin since it’s one bad day away from totaled--you listen to songs
from movie musicals you haven’t seen in decades.

September:
Sometimes you feel yourself falling into old habits: wishing on stars,
drifting into fairyland, forgetting that you cannot live on stories. There is no evil
queen: any sweets she offers are empty. Remember to eat food of substance.

October:
There are no pixies or brownies, so the spoiled milk comes from you
forgetting to drink it. There are no changelings, so the weird kids come
from their parents. Broken mirrors mean nothing, but the bad luck comes.

November:
In the long hours of the night, you think you hear the call
of a crow. In daylight, you find a white feather on your window sill.

December:
You never kissed a frog or danced at a ball. The falling snow isn’t
like stars or floating fairies. It’s cold and wet and sticking to your coat.
Your shadow from the streetlight does not look like a wolf.

13
Artificial Sweetener

I remember the sugar cookies in middle school, butter soft
and sweet enough to curl your lips into a smile. They left
a little grease on your fingers that smelled better than any
birthday lotion. White linoleum tiles speckled with gray
lined the floor of the cafeteria while the ceiling felt too low,
the room filled with heat and middle schooler stink.
I set next to R—- and watched B—– from afar. The first
crush that consumed me. Before K—, before E— or S–.
Even before D—–, who I never even met in person. He
called me hysterical once, and at the time I glowed
with the compliment, but now I think he meant unhinged.
I’m filling my mouth with the memories like I would cram
those sugar cookies though my teeth, a one-note sweetness
flooding me before I learned to love complexity. Back then,
I was trying to run from who I had been: bobcut, jello-eating
child wearing fish-patterned capris made by Aunt Ann.
I grew my hair out, wore jeans even to bed, and chafed
against the forces trying to shape me. I’m still running.
I wonder what I would have said then about who I’ve
become, after I cut away all that wavy hair ans started
wearing patterns once again, and never bluejeans.
Now I delight in peaches–a sweet tooth till the end,
but I love the sour film under the skin too, the dusty
fuzz I used to hate. My teeth clack against the pit.
I wonder about the spaces I hold inside me, like
the blistering attic filled with the hard bodies
of wasps, or the space my chest made for cello
music played by a brother who doesn’t talk to me.
How do I hold whole structures and people and
years and years here in my arteries? Each day
I swallow another piece of the sky, but where
is the room for it?


13.5
to put it another way

When I was young,
I filled my mouth with empty
sweetness and covered my skin
with guilt. I was empty inside empty,
trying to fill myself by eating more empty.
The insubstantial names that made me fragile
broke me.

I thought his words were sweet
but they were like a broad, empty field
meant to bury me.

I loved sweetness because it was easy.

I wanted to hide from the bitterness of rot
as the sweetness of the years before turned
to ashes. I wanted to be empty of that.
To wash myself of pain. Now I like
the sourness on the underside
of peach skin. Now I am refilling
myself with memory, finding all
the empty reservoirs in my chest

and flooding them.