Saturday, 30 April 2011


end/poem for reaffirmation

it is not without wincing first
that i pull off the parts of
the scabs that have long
peeled off

it is periodical, freeing, and necessary
but not without qualms

that i forget
seventeen years worth
of things that you said and
just under fifty of things
that you didn't

turn my back on centuries
of wrinkled men crying over
things i am too young,
too naive, too female
to understand

not without doubts
that i braid such boisterous
choices onto the script
of my name

it is not like you owe me
acceptance, of all things

i just want you to know
it is not without dread
that i risk your rejection

Friday, 29 April 2011


after i laid my stepping stone down
like a welcoming mat, i took up
a new kind of prayer and i called it
the one in which i forget

i do not know whose hand it was
that pulled me along
but i remember a girl with dark tresses
and eyes like icicles saying let go and
a fiery woman with sprites in her fingers
and legs wide open

i remember the way it felt when
it all made sense, and the newborn
hopes taking shape in poems about
fingertips walking down backbones

if only i could say

i remember the smell of burning
the ani difranco songs drawing
spirals round my throat and
the indecision that tried to be
subtle on the armrest

if only i did not talk so loud
about things that don't really matter

i remember wishing i could pray,
stand in rows like the women
in coats and neat little shoes
and wanting more than anything
a home for my hands
and my questions

but my gods are busy playing
scrabble, and home?
that is where i left my heart
when i decided to jump

Thursday, 28 April 2011


Only two poems left. It makes me sad.

i am a silly tender girl
my bones and my mind
are made up of
promises and poetry

my eyes are too restless
my gods too playful
and my heart too young
for my own good

my words are too muffled
metaphors too lofty
and choices too absurd
for a lot of other people's

and yes
it is true

i have given myself many names
hidden in the folds of stage curtains
the shadows of piano keys
and sometimes the stomachs of
question marks

i call it art
although it feels
a little less blameless,
a little less mine

but it is easy to forget
when you are with me--
a friend although it feels
a little less outlined
a little more cautious

and a lot less likely.

thank you.

Wednesday, 27 April 2011


(alternatively: genetics are the most wonderful terrifying thing ever)

This man
with red socks to
match his shirt
sits on a counter-top
informs me

i am a maze of dominos
oil spills waiting to happen
too many tangles to count
of things that could go wrong

now you must remember, he says
the science of "random"
you must think exponentially
you must
mustn't be a poet about it

and who needs poetry--
i am a can of rhymes that
might just be rotten, a giftbox
rattling with riddles and risks
and ribbon-tied maybes

and how can i drop
such a boulder onto anyone
wince and peek through one eye
and call her my own


line by line collab with two fellow NaPoets =)

Leave all of your suitcases open
gaping mouths, then step out of the room
breath stolen by dragonflies, on the path to nowhere.
Twinkle with stillborn dreams and songs unsung.
Hear the ends of chords unplayed
then reach to infinity and complete the one
that sounds truest to you.

Be still. This is where
symphonies begin, in the space between
sleep and awake. Nightmares walk but so does beauty.

Leave your suitcases open, and your heart.

Monday, 25 April 2011


prompt: riddle poem
Disclaimer: I have no idea where I am going with this.

there are little boys in suits
and little girls in
frills and they ask me very
difficult things in
strange tongues, they speak
quickly but with
uncertain fingers and hasty

eyelids and on most days i
don't understand
but on some days there is a
floating gold box
of questions, hopes, dreams

some days there is a fiery
woman with two
little pixie eyes in each of
the glances they
throw towards me, those
are the kinds of
days when i understand.

Sunday, 24 April 2011


a poem in books and misconceptions
prompt: autobiography

Where's Spot by Eric Hill
i am showing my dad that
praying is easy, i cross my arms
and mutter like i have seen him do
and he smiles and says he will teach me

his laughter is round like pita bread
which is really only just bread at home
but there are lines that have to be drawn
and i will never argue again with that boy
in my class about santa claus.

Harry Potter by J.K. Rowling
there are three scooters sprawled
along the edge of the road and
there are four of us
i am given a twig and instructions
it is my turn to try and find the snake
but i really do not like this game
so we walk on the edge of the street
and we pretend that the wheat field is lava

we crack open the stem
of a thistle, wonder at the marble
of milk and dare each other to taste it

it burns

it is going to kill us both

but it is okay because we both
know all there is to know
about god and we love
our mothers

The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath
i write about flowers i have
never seen before and
acquire a hollow, breathing
collection of things i do not know
and poems that rhyme

i smile at the women with
tiny shoes and long coats
offer them pastries and
quaint little pieces of hearts

the question marks spill
from my fingers like sand

Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov
there is no excited exchange
in the air, no gasping confessions
about how my hands would
rather be preoccupied
with your hair

there is only the haughty
smell of your cigarette smoke
and the delicate punctuation mark
that you placed in the space
between us

i will be watching in case it falls