Elsewhere

Everything looks better in the morning–
but all mornings are nights somewhere else,
and it’s the somewhere else that preoccupies me.

In the small hours of the night I look eagerly for day
but in the morning I roll my eyes at the too-cheery sun.

Contradictions could be paradoxes–
I think it depends on how poetic you can manage to be
when pressed between paper and bread and stairwells.

All else is incessantly playing, whispering in my ears
like a song in a language I don’t know
and I can’t get it out or understand it.

The mornings and nights try to make it clearer, but fail,
and name their attempts after days of the week.

Fool

“I’m a fool, if ever there was one,” I say,
but with a smile,

because the evening air is sweet
and the sky is burnished gold.

I can’t escape this placidity.

Who knows whether it’s confidence
that I’ll fall on my feet,

or, hello old friend, despair.

But either way, damned be
the heart scraping against broken ribs.

The twisting twilight between my fingers
is too fine for this fool
to be frightened of uncertain dark.

Bluebirds and Robins

A few nights ago, my sister listened to the last song I posted on here, and told me with tears in her eyes, that she needed my new songs.

Now, my normal process it to pull myself and my songs to pieces, until I end up not posting them at all, or only one every other month. But there was something in the look she gave me–well, I have to tell the critic sitting in my skull to shut it for once, and post things that are ragged around the edges. I have beautiful words written for me by one sister, request for songs from another, and hugs from the last. I can do this.

Sometimes I sit back and marvel at how lucky I am to have three sisters who care about me, and treat me as their friend. The least I can do is brave my own insecurities.

Here’s ‘Bluebirds and Robins,’ one of the songs that’ll go on my macbook-recorded collection, Ragged, and a bright, happy nothing:

10:34 PM

I throw my arms around my mother’s stomach–
she whispers soft prayers above me.
Holy Father, don’t forget me.
My face and breath are against her
and for a brief moment my eyes hide from light.

I am young and old, too much and not enough.
My arms are gone from around her waist
she wants life for me,
as much as I want it for myself.

I am in the world, at home, and nowhere by myself
yet when I see my mother and hug her,
release her, I question, and ask,
Am I old enough?

In the spaces of breath when we are mother and daughter
I think we dream of the same things
before saying goodnight.

Fewer Words Would Be Better

I’ve tried for complicated words before,
and came up feeling empty.

I’ve attempted to avoid my thoughts
with grandiose images:
like dark, windy woods in crooked arms of rock,
or placid lakes ridged by overbearing mountains.

But no matter how long I tried to hold on with both hands
to the meadows and the woods and the water,
I was forced to go towards the sparse desert.

The mountains expelled me, the lakes refused to hide me.
The snow froze me out, every ripple in the water
was a line of a confession,
every breath of wind stolen from my lungs.

Arid and dry, bone-cracking and heart trembling.
Welcome to a world of few words.

You cannot hide here,
the sun will burn up everything you are.
There is no distraction here,
for there’s nowhere for your troublesome shadows to hide.

What are your troubles? Hurry–speak them quickly.
No covering them in the coldness of your blood,
everything in the desert boils to the surface at last.

Stop running your voice and words together
in some brief and blinding blur,
Stop trying to escape the unrelenting desert around you,
admit, before you collapse, that you’re alone.

The Old City, part Three

It’s Thursday once again, and my turn to read aloud (as a part of the storytelling game on tumblr I posted about a week ago). This is the third and final installment of ‘The Old City,’ a story I’ve been narrating about a young woman named Amelia who catches a train in a city during wartime. When we last saw Amelia, the particularly and peculiarly helpful colonel had left her with an escape route.

Below is not only part Three, but parts One and Two for your convenience. Give them a listen, if you like a little bit of scifi, and can stand me putting on voices! Next week will be the start of a new story, and I’ll keep posting it here, and on tumblr.

Part Three:

Part Two:

Part One:

What the Wolf Said

I want someone I am not afraid of,
for I am afraid of love enough already.

I think maybe it’s cowardice,
or not-knowing, or the un-knowing.
But any way I think about it, the answer’s still the same.

Look simply, talk honestly.
I am not a fish to be caught on your line.
Approach me hands open,
with slow movements on the cracking ground.

Give me your voice in the dark
for I am a wolf that will run from you, hungry,
and circle back again if I hear you speak.

And You Said, Love is a Lesson

I suppose what I’ve learned is that I want to be overpowered by a towering love,
and in the middle of the terror claiming my soul,
rise up in a fury and fling aside the walls of the world
until everything, everything,
collapses.

What will they do, when I spring upwards?
With my love craning his neck at my side, both of us petrified,
and suddenly mad with that miracle?

What will they do, when I speak with all the force of my voice,
shaking the silence till it trembles?

What will they do, when love is no longer fear,
and the terror of my heart is free?

The Old City, parts One and Two

I’ve been a part of a story-telling game on tumblr, and every Thursday is my turn to read aloud either something I’ve written, or a favorite fable of mine. For the past two weeks, I’ve been narrating a story I wrote called The Old City, about a young woman named Amelia who catches a train in a city during wartime.

If you like a little bit of scifi, try giving this a listen! (If you do, you deserve a slice of cake.)

Part One (16 min):

Part Two (14 min):

The Northbound NRW

He tapped his fingers against the side of his plastic seat. The train wasn’t moving fast enough.

Four hours ago, she had called and said that they were through.

A woman next to him sneezed on his arm. He stopped drumming for a moment, and pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket to wipe it off. She had always teased him for having one. Old-fashioned, she’d say, and that’s what I like about you.

Three hours ago, walking back in forth in the steel trappings of his gloomy office, he spat and cussed at everyone who walked in the door, without knowing why.

The train slowed to a screeching halt, grinding and digging into the rickety rails beneath it. He craned his neck to look at the people filing in through the doors, willing them to move faster.

Two hours ago, he had finally understood why his secretary had spent the last week’s worth of lunch breaks weeping over a crumpled photo of a man in a desert six thousand miles away. She had raised her hand today and squeezed his, with a look of knowing in her eyes. What was it she knew?

Now there was only one stop before his. A pregnant woman swayed uneasily in front of him. He quickly vacated his seat and helped her sit down. He stood in the doorway, the bouquet of flowers clutched tightly in one hand, his foot tapping furiously in time to the cacophony of rattling metal and murmur of people doing nothing.

One hour ago, he had flown out of his office, out of the building, and into the streets. He had bought her flowers; white roses faintly pink on the edges. As he turned and sped from the shopkeeper, still counting the change, he nearly ran into two young women as they lifted surprised faces up at him. He ran past sidewalk vendors and fruit stands in the middle of their sales, college students huddled in smoky clouds that lingered around their heads, and mothers, loudly calling their progeny away from the street. They were all one bright, flashing blur as he ran for the train, and her.

The doors finally slid open for him, a blast of biting air slicing towards his face. He charged through the massive crowd of coats and suits that converged upon his exit, holding tightly onto his roses and leaping up the stairs to the exit.