03.04.09/03.05.09

03.04.09

aqua river

thirsty terraces

surround you

a long fall from here

in hills

where children play

in dirty toilets

where women bend in half

beneath their leafy loads

where men sing, argue

and bright clothing hangs

tattered, but hopeful

03.05.09

There is black smoke in my head

Lightning in my jaws

Stones in my shoulders

Fire in my belly

Mysteries in the soles of my feet.

Window Seat

I always get that shallow-breathing, clammy, shaking-in-my-boots feeling that I can never rationalize away.

(Spicy Indian snack stains my fingers turmeric. I shovel little bits into my mouth and find an assortment later: chickpeas, lentils and puffed rice in my crotch and resting upon my breasts.)

I pretend not to be a bumbling mess, but I betray myself every time.

I'm glad you got me a window seat. I hope I can see the mountains.

02.06.09

02.06.09

How to kill within me
All that kills
Without killing myself?

How to rid myself of
All that hates
Without losing feeling?

How to shed the skin of
Anxiety, fear
Without coming undone?

I want to forget my body
To remember the voices, the faces
Of the present moment
I want to forget
The self of my past.

White Tiles

White Tiles

You sit with me on the bathroom floor. It is the quietest place I can find, and I fill it with noise.

You listen (you always do) to my salty sobs, echoing against the tiles, bouncing right back to where they came from.

You tell me to breathe. It's easier for you. I want you to know that it hurts to inhale. It hurts to feel. It hurts to be the comforted, never the comforter. Sometimes, it hurts to be.

You breathe into my neck, slowly, steadily. You crouch beside me, patient, knowing, exhaling strength. I want to breathe you in, but I can't. Not today.