the flagstones were winding, and i stepped on every single one. the flagstones were dark red, and i kicked over every second one. The flagstones were infested, and I smiled at the little ants.
This morning though, the flagstones were gone, and the ants were all that was left. I watched them closely. Coldly. And applauded the man who had taken the flagstones for he was going to turn them into gravel. And that was worth displacing the tiny little ants.
I cannot pen her body. I cannot pen the effects of the lights, or the influence of vodka. I can only pen that The thrum in my mind matched the burn in my hands, while we worked in a quiet place.
the smell of her was a distant thing that reminded me of somewhere unobtainable and far away, but her hands were there, and they- oh they were akin to rays of light that made me feel, for once, lighthearted and my own kind of far away.
I cannot pen her breath, and I will not pen the rivets in my heart left there, marred by that night. (the only thing I can remember is her breath; and, perhaps, her eyes: i think that they were brown) I can only pen that the closeness of all the things in my chest might kill me before the end of the morning.
you are not a tent to be blown over when the wind is strong. you are not for sideshows where people ogle at your oddities. ropes are not what hold you up, tied taught around pegs, ready to be unearthed by anything.
you are a temple to stand till God calls you back to the Earth. you are so intricate; designed to captivate onlookers with your grace. your foundation is as stone, and they will never be able to break you down.
i dusted my hands against each other (for they were full of moon dust) and let my breath explode into fragments (it represented each of their heartbeats) and i pulled her precious Stars into me (for she was busy forming consciousness)
it was breathlessness that brought them here, and will that forged them in the shadows; in sanctuary away from me but they are blessed nonetheless.
our darkness has never been wonderful (for darkness without respite rarely is), but through vision, she bore us the heavens (truly the mother of all of our works), this is a dance we fullheartedly praise (they are our children; our sanctuary).
these drunken hour-journeys stain my bedsheets, but i am sober and i pray, so is she. the night is the drunken one, and our taut breaths call it out on its hazy laughter, as it watches us die as we pull ourselves back apart
Where have all the crooked men gone? Chased to their niches by the unbent and their guns. A kiss on the cheek warrants a name on pink, pinned to the billboard at school- the blackmail possessed by the unbent man.
Where have all the unbent men gone? Chased to the shadows by the crooked and their love. Afraid of being converted to wickedness! prepared to fix the crooked with seething words and undue hate.
Has your love been deluded? Your children lied to; your women stolen by sheep in wolves' clothing? Never have I watched a crooked man shove the unbent into a tight quarters with a light on the ceiling that you turn on with a thin little chain; where they're sentenced to choke on mothballs and the acid in their throat that you've given them to drink goblet-full by goblet-full.
"How dare they wish to be treated as equals!" Such grit and audacity from the crooked people! Who refuse to stay hidden in their quarters. Who refuse to be beaten for leaving. They will not tear down those who allow them to stand, but they'll roar into oblivion the hate of the unbent man.
Whatever happened to the unbent man? "They were overthrown by the crooked!"
Posh.
If you'd been overthrown by the crooked, the entire world would damn well know it. There wouldn't be anything more to see of unbent men. But there are enough of you to riot on days set aside for memory of our fallen, and for the celebration of those who survived. And there are enough of you to cry wolf at lambs and accuse them of wearing a faulty disguise. There are enough of you to staunch our rights, and push us back into our mothball-infested corners.
Whatever happened to the unbent, with their perfect, shiny teeth? Their nails are the razors our teenagers use, their words are the bridges. The shoelaces. The pill bottles. Whatever happened to the unbent, and their guns and their fists and their threats? Have they been silenced? Thrown out? I still see your names on certificates. I see your narrowed eyes and flaring nostrils as you watch us glide down the street hand-in-hand, only mostly unafraid of all of the unbent men that we'll meet.
"Whatever happened to the unbent men?" they ask, as they weep for themselves and their rights- both of which still exist, neither of which we have any desire to silence or to wipe out, or to bring to demise. Nothing has happened to the unbent man; he's only been asked to share with us.
my ribs are a cage, and restlessness is a dog, rabid and unyielding, and I feel nothing else. his jaws hold tight to the neck of a bird (my heart; I think my lungs were its wings, once). The dog can't get out, so he stays and he feeds on my sanity.
my ribs are marked by his teeth; old wounds- nothing else. there are places on my hips where the blood poured out; the toxins needed to be drained somewhere. It was my veins that served as sewage pipes. They say rabies is a killer- I needed to detox somehow.
the dog wants out, but my ribs have become a cage. he can paw, and whine, and circle himself. I don't know how to let him out.
Isha, you are one of my favorite writers AND poets. I can't see you failing at anything.
ants is just so cute, but there's an ever looming darkness to it, so I like those two distinctions playing at each other. I like the pensiveness and the imagery in temple, it works together really well. Craters to mountains is just beautiful, I can't really pick a single line to nom at. Night intoxicated is just so crisp and poignant and the form of it is beautiful. Restlessness is my favorite, uggghhh the feels <3
i was wrought with tension that night, but her eyes were permissive (and definitely brown). she pulled me to a dark corner, where we made a mess of her sheets in five seconds flat. i said i would stop doing nights, but if she keeps coming back, i don't think that i can.
i never touched skin once that night- she was more like silk, and feathers, and other soft things; like skimming my hands through water, or running them over the surface of the atmosphere. her hands only ever touched the up-and-down result of panic and safety pins (for that, i was truly sorry)
i never paused- never quit working; it would mean silence, and silence was nothing in light of the way she broke it. the higher and longer she went, the lower i slipped-- --it was a good night, she would say later in the morning, when i felt like it might kill me (i should really stop doing nights).
i never stopped doing nights, and i am still with out the ability to pen her. i can say, for sure, however (i know what she's like, now): she tasted like skittle shots and felt like glitter.
i could write a book of poetry about all the things i already have. i could write a book of poetry about how grateful i am for the moon, or how much i love watching the stars. but sometimes i want to hold galaxies- to cradle them in the palm of my hand.
i could write a book of poetry about all the things i already have. but i will write a book of poetry about how i want to grow the galaxies in the garden i made in my back yard. and i will write a book of poetry about how i will hold the sun and moon and stars.
DD
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