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.

1.12.09/1.14.09/Wild

1.12.09

He opened the door
And watched her walk into rooms
Patterned with his habits
Colored by his dreams
Darkened by his fears
Lit, brilliantly, by his love

He opened the door
And watched her walk slowly
Through the museum of his heart
Touching the art on its walls
Slowly, slowly
Watched her memorize the
Textures, the colors, the shadows
The years of who he is
Watched her imagine
The years of who he will be

And she said,
"It's beautiful. I want to live here."

1.14.09

It is said that today is the climax of winter, the coldest day of the year. I feel it. In my bones, my slow-moving blood, my frigid extremities. I feel it. In my restless, aching heart. Even the sun is hiding its face from the world. Can I too? How wonderful it would feel to slip under, behind, beneath...to relax, forget, breathe, to stop the world and melt.

Wild

"Wild is anything that's not at home." I am not at home. I am wild inside. Wild with longing, with dreams, with the throb of suffering inside these walls of paper.

Alive/The Last Word

Alive

It is morning, and I am awake. The sun is making its upward journery, and I am alive. The world is moving, working, stretching, breathing, and I am a part of that world. To be still and remember these small wonders...to do nothing but contemplate and rest in a moment, in a single thought...is to be very much alive.

Oh, how hard it is to be this alive! My mind fights to live inside yesterday, tomorrow, to live anywhere but Now. To exist in a nonexistent place. I must wrestle it back and let it rest Here. It is morning and I am awake. Alive.

The Last Word

I am afraid of my memories losing their clarity, their proximity. I am afraid of losing my chances of feeling "at home". I am afraid of getting to the end and being disappointed. I am afraid of changing, as I strive for change with each breath. I am afraid of losing my already slippery grip on...well, what is it I think I have a grip on?

Maybe I need to learn that life is about losing, swaying, dangling, questioning, transforming...all those words that have no ending. Maybe I'm afraid of never having the last word, the answers.

By Heart/Speak Heart

By Heart

There is hiding-behind
There is sleep-walking
There is immersion

What else is there to do
with a world self-destructing
with a life, a billion lives
shrinking from light?
What else do you do with
the Shadows
but stay still under their coolness?

This is the way
I know by heart.

Speak Heart

Speak, heart
just loud enough for me to hear
tell me what it is you need
could it be such a mystery?

Speak, and I will try to
remember your language
the words are somewhere
locked in the contours of my
crowded mind.

Speak, and while I cannot
promise to understand
I will try to listen
to know the reverberations
of words spoken in the dark.