the doctors tugged every corner of you taut over a frame of bone and clawed at the fishhooks stuck through your skin like you hadn't clawed a hundred times before
clawed like hell, with fingernails ragged as your breath ragged as the grass where the butterflies flock and you unfolded like so many wings in a barrage of vivid color that killed the mind
they tried to catch the savage beast and teach it language but it was too late for you, too late to save the passage of time so clearly marked
like fate you would've said with a laugh, hell, with a grin but bitten-off nails only do you so much good and ragged grass is chopped off to the root and butterflies only live for a season
i don't have words for how betrayed i am that anyone would ever think that of me how i eschew perfection that anyone would ever ascribe that to me
sick to my stomach with how dare you built up like water behind a dam all i have to do is open the floodgates
how dare you how dare i let you down and get myself caught in this trap
a violent concoction of guilt and fury fills my head to the brim until all i can breathe is bile and fear drowning everything for the sake of melodrama
Somewhere in the wood grain of this Cracker Barrel, everything took root---everything I am and that I have been---and it grew and leafed out, reaching for the sun.
In the click of plastic checkers pieces---king me!--- in the creak of wooden rocking chairs and the patient whirr of weasel balls waiting to be unlocked and killed for joy---
in the fear of meeting old faces again, the exasperation of buttermilk biscuits that sometimes taste like ash and sometimes like heaven---
in constant sales and Yankee Candle and ads for cigarettes and Coca-Cola hand in hand, the sound of falling glass before it hits the ground, oil lamps and jumping games and conversations accidentally overheard---
silver-plated memories are the least grating against my skin— at least they don't eat away at me like the others do. they're gentle, curling me away for future reference in a world too harsh for me to think.
but every time they're worn the plating rubs off against my hands coloring me a little more silver and them a little more nickel until the wounds are torn open again; then for all my protests I become
everything I hate so violently I'd throw it against the wall but I know it would stick with teeth torn from the jaw of a coral snake digging downwards and inwards and back against the grain,
filling me with venom I never knew my system could take so readily that I can spit it right back out at bull's eyes drawn on smiling faces; I become the monster in the darkness, red eyes through windowpanes like
streetlights blinking out one by one and fingernails clawed into bed sheets ripping away at the only shield between them and the night, and the monster, and me; I become the unknown, the uncategorized, the unorganized,
drifting in a limbo of my own creation, of laugh tracks pointed at the rawest nerve of barbs sticking through my skin so sharp I could forget this was soothing once, that it was my protection before I became this hell—and damn,
it's cold as silence here, and damn, it's bright as silver.
she took root as a camphor tree in my heart all healing no poison and a promise of tomorrow her smooth bark soothing as she pressed her hand against my aching soul and whispered sleep
she grew tall and broad on my vitality not leeching but adding essentials that I lacked the soil at her roots thrived on dying leaves and I drew in all my tender limbs to seek her nutrition
her canopy was my much-needed rest from the violence of a humid chest a broken voice and shaking lungs I clung to her trunk with the insistence of a child refused to take a step away for fear I would fall over
I scraped my knee against the ground once on a rock that threw itself against my skin and my camphor tree kissed it better with the fervor of one who can't stand to see someone hurting
she told me she didn't belong here with me she shouldn't have rested under these summer skies she came from far away and long ago and I said it didn't matter where she was from but where she was
but all too soon they came with saws to cut her down and I curled myself tight around her and begged leave her be let her grow but they took her away in bits and pieces letting smooth leaves fall
my soil crumbled and my sun grew hot and my chest collapsed in the storm of the century without my camphor tree without the soothing cold without the shade and sorrow and promises
the broken girl was a water snake; scars slashed across her throat where they had tried to cut off her head, and she came to me begging let you be different let you be kind
and i was.
the broken girl was a water snake; she sipped daintily at what i offered so slowly and surely it was gone, and she came to wrap around me I'll protect you from them they'll kill you
and i agreed.
the broken girl was a water snake; the mob came to my door, grim-faced with shotguns at the ready; i blocked them, righteousness brewing thunder in my heart get out of my house—tell me why her, why her?
the broken girl was a water snake; a mistake, i argued, a lie that they thought her venomous, thought her dangerous enough to warrant shotguns what's wrong with you? answer me!
and they laughed and asked if i didn't know a viper when i saw one.
i'm afraid of dying alone and everyone knows that but somehow that's not a comfort when they use it against me;
their beaks pierce my heart and i bind it to protect against the sharp force trauma but they've already picked out the good things and let them sit out to rot in the florida sun;
i hate the sound of running water but i couldn't tell you why;
all i know is that i'm afraid of dying alone and everyone knows that but it's the most dangerous thing in the world to share your secrets when you're like me;
all i know is that fears unlike fates unlike dreams can always come true.
the train derailed at murphy with a screech that shook the foundation of the 7-11.
an accident, said one of the smokers standing nearby, the smell of cigarettes ingrained in his skin; a bad one, the cashier agreed, wringing her hands as she waited for the police to arrive.
the train derailed at murphy; i was standing there that night, watched the beast leap from the tracks— for a moment it sprouted wings and breathed its lungs full of fire.
Mute buttons turn me head over heels; I've never appreciated anything as much as a good deserved silence. It's like a great rest after a long day spent working, comforting you that you don't need to let their serrated-edged voices mingle with the sharp duo-tone of a doorbell or the black guttural engine growl of life— there is a silence, they say, and it's only fair to let you enjoy it once in a while.
breaking news: five car pileup on the carlin bridge; a truck transporting a candied red Ferrari swerved too far to the right and scraped against the wall; so far none are reported as dead; a few in critical condition are being transported to the nearest hospital; the Ferrari was unharmed.
I've been reading your lovely poetry since the start of Napo and I've been enjoying everything I've read. I just wanted to comment on the lion. That last stanza about the fragment being stronger than the whole and who can shatter a grain of sand? One word: whoa. That was sheer genius and I just had to let you know although I am sure you do. Thanks for sharing your amazing poetry!
"A poet is, before anything else, a person who is passionately in love with language." - W.H. Auden
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