Poetry
you weren’t supposed to be here; you aren’t supposed to be here.
you were supposed to be gone by now. but of course, you can’t do anything right.
a year passed for you this year, and it wasn’t supposed to, but you still can’t do anything right.
you made friends, who you don’t talk to when you’re upset.
they smile at you and it stings behind your eyes because you should be better for them.
you poisoned your body, lit up bright futures that crumbled to ash in your fingers
and you gasped in haze and imagined that it was the fire in your lung instead of the smoke.
you try hard to forget that sting behind your eyes when someone smiles at you.
you try not to think about yourself when you walk at night, where someone else is afraid
because you aren’t afraid at night, even though it should be you instead of them.
and you try not to think about the sting behind your eyes, when she asks why you do this to yourself.
you think about how you can’t do anything right.
and you put out your cigarette, and you go back inside.
you were supposed to be gone by now. but of course, you can’t do anything right.
a year passed for you this year, and it wasn’t supposed to, but you still can’t do anything right.
you made friends, who you don’t talk to when you’re upset.
they smile at you and it stings behind your eyes because you should be better for them.
you poisoned your body, lit up bright futures that crumbled to ash in your fingers
and you gasped in haze and imagined that it was the fire in your lung instead of the smoke.
you try hard to forget that sting behind your eyes when someone smiles at you.
you try not to think about yourself when you walk at night, where someone else is afraid
because you aren’t afraid at night, even though it should be you instead of them.
and you try not to think about the sting behind your eyes, when she asks why you do this to yourself.
you think about how you can’t do anything right.
and you put out your cigarette, and you go back inside.
Aphrodite probably had female lovers. A lot of Greek gods had those
bisexual tendencies. Who didn’t back then? Apollo had his fair share,
and cypress trees still weep over fallen stags in long-forgotten forests. It isn’t
dumb to assume the gods held more secrets than they left behind;
everyone has stories they won’t tell, even if the ones they do share
follow eyebrow-raising and cheek-reddening exploits. Exploring
gender-based transformations gives way to understanding close-
held identities. Women turned into men to live lives they were happier with
imbed in my memory years after they would’ve been of use. Leucippus was
just a name I fumbled over before, now turned into a man that mirrors myself.
Kalais and Orpheus do their own dance, sing their songs of adventure and
love and separate when their job is complete. Was it true love? It
must have been, since I can’t find any other reason to let oneself
nod off, thinking of him, in a dangerous countryside alone,
only to end up dead and waiting in Elysium forever—after all,
perfect beings like gods could never die. Was there ever happiness for
queer people in mythology? Maybe Apollo found it while he
reminisced on dates with Hyacinth, wondering if a god’s hand could get
sweaty before he reached out to hold the hand of his beloved. They can’t be
together long, of course. None of them can. Hyacinth is lost to jealousy
under the guise of a gust of wind from a scorned suitor. ‘Traditional
values’ don’t make sense to me when the traditions I read went against
what they spoke about in kindergarten at church. I consumed
X-rated myths like they were my Greek version of Grimm’s fairytales. I’ve
yet to lose faith in these stories, though, the ones I’ve found myself in; ones where
zinnias may have once been the ancient lesbian lovers of Aphrodite.
bisexual tendencies. Who didn’t back then? Apollo had his fair share,
and cypress trees still weep over fallen stags in long-forgotten forests. It isn’t
dumb to assume the gods held more secrets than they left behind;
everyone has stories they won’t tell, even if the ones they do share
follow eyebrow-raising and cheek-reddening exploits. Exploring
gender-based transformations gives way to understanding close-
held identities. Women turned into men to live lives they were happier with
imbed in my memory years after they would’ve been of use. Leucippus was
just a name I fumbled over before, now turned into a man that mirrors myself.
Kalais and Orpheus do their own dance, sing their songs of adventure and
love and separate when their job is complete. Was it true love? It
must have been, since I can’t find any other reason to let oneself
nod off, thinking of him, in a dangerous countryside alone,
only to end up dead and waiting in Elysium forever—after all,
perfect beings like gods could never die. Was there ever happiness for
queer people in mythology? Maybe Apollo found it while he
reminisced on dates with Hyacinth, wondering if a god’s hand could get
sweaty before he reached out to hold the hand of his beloved. They can’t be
together long, of course. None of them can. Hyacinth is lost to jealousy
under the guise of a gust of wind from a scorned suitor. ‘Traditional
values’ don’t make sense to me when the traditions I read went against
what they spoke about in kindergarten at church. I consumed
X-rated myths like they were my Greek version of Grimm’s fairytales. I’ve
yet to lose faith in these stories, though, the ones I’ve found myself in; ones where
zinnias may have once been the ancient lesbian lovers of Aphrodite.
I tied myself to
a young tree, and watered her
until she hung me.
a young tree, and watered her
until she hung me.
A lone apartment angel eats an apple
between sips of black coffee
cooling in its cup. Drops of rain
dash down the windows.
Exuberant youths mingle amid
forlorn vagrants in the street,
greeting the weather with
heavy coats beneath street lights
illuminating rain-slicked brownstones.
Jazz hangs in the air like
kites without string.
Lovers murmur promises in a bed
made for one. Men enter a bar
nursing grievances they aim to drown
over drinks they don’t need.
Patrons come and go from
quiet clubs where singers
riff in columns of light.
Silhouette of a single mother
tucking her children into bed,
urging them to get some sleep.
Various urban vignettes expose themselves
without meaning to. Scenes of such
xenial nature always seemingly
yield themselves to the
zealots of Romanticism.
between sips of black coffee
cooling in its cup. Drops of rain
dash down the windows.
Exuberant youths mingle amid
forlorn vagrants in the street,
greeting the weather with
heavy coats beneath street lights
illuminating rain-slicked brownstones.
Jazz hangs in the air like
kites without string.
Lovers murmur promises in a bed
made for one. Men enter a bar
nursing grievances they aim to drown
over drinks they don’t need.
Patrons come and go from
quiet clubs where singers
riff in columns of light.
Silhouette of a single mother
tucking her children into bed,
urging them to get some sleep.
Various urban vignettes expose themselves
without meaning to. Scenes of such
xenial nature always seemingly
yield themselves to the
zealots of Romanticism.
You can tell by her hands – gnawed nails and varicose veins – that she works.
You can tell by her face – stoic with ageless ardor — she loves her work.
A mother runs a restaurant from her home; tables stand where her boys played
while she serves familial history in colorful peppers framed like artwork.
My uncle and I sit beside the fireplace. A worn portrait of a weathered man
with a thinning crown and gentle jaw sits atop the mantel in the rotting framework.
Sombreros of dead men decorate the walls to commemorate the laborious lineage
of a simple family, hoping to maintain their name through their hard work.
Sons working for their mothers care nothing for the family business.
She pays them well and isn’t too stern; all the same, they hate their work.
The boys hate living above the restaurant. They hate strangers eating in the old
living room. They hate feeling trapped and hate having been born into their work.
She tries to imagine what her father would say to her boys if he were here to see them.
He used to hold them each and pray to the saint with their name, before going to work.
A daughter builds upon her father’s passion. Her love for the constant ruckus
of a full kitchen and packed house never waned; for her, it was more than just work.
You can tell by her face – stoic with ageless ardor — she loves her work.
A mother runs a restaurant from her home; tables stand where her boys played
while she serves familial history in colorful peppers framed like artwork.
My uncle and I sit beside the fireplace. A worn portrait of a weathered man
with a thinning crown and gentle jaw sits atop the mantel in the rotting framework.
Sombreros of dead men decorate the walls to commemorate the laborious lineage
of a simple family, hoping to maintain their name through their hard work.
Sons working for their mothers care nothing for the family business.
She pays them well and isn’t too stern; all the same, they hate their work.
The boys hate living above the restaurant. They hate strangers eating in the old
living room. They hate feeling trapped and hate having been born into their work.
She tries to imagine what her father would say to her boys if he were here to see them.
He used to hold them each and pray to the saint with their name, before going to work.
A daughter builds upon her father’s passion. Her love for the constant ruckus
of a full kitchen and packed house never waned; for her, it was more than just work.
“oh well, why not be rich and clean and
loud and proud, very proud, why not
look nice and laugh at advertisements
and keep up with trends
make casual friends
and pretend to listen
why not grow thick skin and care
a little less
a little more
and have nice things, why not succeed
forget to vote
buy styrofoam cups and plates
and forget
and forget and forget and forget
there’s no hardandfast rule that says
you have to be unhappy,”
she tells me through the millennial grittoothed
grimace of a universe.
loud and proud, very proud, why not
look nice and laugh at advertisements
and keep up with trends
make casual friends
and pretend to listen
why not grow thick skin and care
a little less
a little more
and have nice things, why not succeed
forget to vote
buy styrofoam cups and plates
and forget
and forget and forget and forget
there’s no hardandfast rule that says
you have to be unhappy,”
she tells me through the millennial grittoothed
grimace of a universe.
I am a jar made of glass,
stained by fingerprints
and soured blackberry jam.
See me emptied and abandoned
in a crowded kitchen sink.
Watch as I’m groped
by spoiled fingers and
scrubbed of even my most
familiar smudges.
I am a jar made of glass,
hoarded in shadows,
in a cabinet of empty jars.
Hear my glassy voice,
crystal clear, crying,
Dear God,
break me,
break me.
stained by fingerprints
and soured blackberry jam.
See me emptied and abandoned
in a crowded kitchen sink.
Watch as I’m groped
by spoiled fingers and
scrubbed of even my most
familiar smudges.
I am a jar made of glass,
hoarded in shadows,
in a cabinet of empty jars.
Hear my glassy voice,
crystal clear, crying,
Dear God,
break me,
break me.
Has anyone ever told you
that your skin is the color of soil?
Yes.
Okay, but has anyone ever told you
that your skin is the color of the morning coffee I wake up for?
Yes.
And has anyone ever told you
that your skin is the color of the milkiest of chocolate or
expensive leather or
cobblestones under a street lamp or
acorns or
bronze or
my mother’s eyes?
I have been told all those things.
Yes, but have I told you
that your skin is the color of soil?
And have I told you
that sometimes I wonder,
if I kiss it enough,
if I water it with my lips,
will flowers burst and
bloom and
blossom making a
garden of a man?
that your skin is the color of soil?
Yes.
Okay, but has anyone ever told you
that your skin is the color of the morning coffee I wake up for?
Yes.
And has anyone ever told you
that your skin is the color of the milkiest of chocolate or
expensive leather or
cobblestones under a street lamp or
acorns or
bronze or
my mother’s eyes?
I have been told all those things.
Yes, but have I told you
that your skin is the color of soil?
And have I told you
that sometimes I wonder,
if I kiss it enough,
if I water it with my lips,
will flowers burst and
bloom and
blossom making a
garden of a man?
My elbows are raw from the windowsill.
Through the frosted glass the Sycamore
in the field is crucified by the seasons.
Winter brittles its branches,
making the tree unclimbable.
As the grass wilts, the sky pales to match
and the animals flee to escape the same
colorless circumstance. Through the icy
glass the lone, gray tree in the field reaches for Heaven,
asking God for Spring.
By the arrival of march my elbows have healed.
The window thaws and I swim across
the ocean of Bermuda grass to the tree.
The Sycamore invites me to climb its born-again form,
to feel its sturdy branches and their flourish of leaves.
Once among the birds and the clouds and the setting sun,
I drink from the opalescent sky. I take a sip of orange,
a swig of blue, a swallow of pink. When
my thirst is finally at peace I rejoin the regrowth of the land.
Once among the beasts and the grass and the soil,
I realize the world tastes wonderful.
Through the frosted glass the Sycamore
in the field is crucified by the seasons.
Winter brittles its branches,
making the tree unclimbable.
As the grass wilts, the sky pales to match
and the animals flee to escape the same
colorless circumstance. Through the icy
glass the lone, gray tree in the field reaches for Heaven,
asking God for Spring.
By the arrival of march my elbows have healed.
The window thaws and I swim across
the ocean of Bermuda grass to the tree.
The Sycamore invites me to climb its born-again form,
to feel its sturdy branches and their flourish of leaves.
Once among the birds and the clouds and the setting sun,
I drink from the opalescent sky. I take a sip of orange,
a swig of blue, a swallow of pink. When
my thirst is finally at peace I rejoin the regrowth of the land.
Once among the beasts and the grass and the soil,
I realize the world tastes wonderful.
My mother, frail and fragile, I hold her hand
up the stairs as she bobs her head;
I will always be her daughter, her friend
dancing in the kitchen to her favorite band
wearing the only color. The color red.
Frail and fragile I hold her hand.
Her hair is up except one little strand,
being sick is something she dreads.
I will always be her daughter, her friend.
With my goodbye she always understands,
that I must leave with much unsaid,
so frail and fragile I must hold her hand.
My mother’s love is true and grand,
however unworthy I am. Instead
I am her daughter and her friend.
Her death, my fear, cannot be planned.
Asleep in all her beauty, she lays in bed.
I will always be her daughter, her friend,
holding her frail and fragile hand.
up the stairs as she bobs her head;
I will always be her daughter, her friend
dancing in the kitchen to her favorite band
wearing the only color. The color red.
Frail and fragile I hold her hand.
Her hair is up except one little strand,
being sick is something she dreads.
I will always be her daughter, her friend.
With my goodbye she always understands,
that I must leave with much unsaid,
so frail and fragile I must hold her hand.
My mother’s love is true and grand,
however unworthy I am. Instead
I am her daughter and her friend.
Her death, my fear, cannot be planned.
Asleep in all her beauty, she lays in bed.
I will always be her daughter, her friend,
holding her frail and fragile hand.
There are some cows
You might have noticed them,
As you were driving down the interstate
In rural Oklahoma.
Fistulated cows,
We call them,
Because of the special little tube,
Uniting their guts with the world outside.
And sometimes people reach right inside,
Fish around in the juices,
And pull out chunks,
Just for science and medicine, of course.
Because there’s this thing called transfaunation,
Where what is squeezed from those chunks,
Is put into the sick cows,
And makes them better.
It rests them,
Puts them right,
Rights what all is wrong,
With their ruminators.
And did you know that cows have four stomachs,
And I’m not satisfied with any explanation
As to why,
It just doesn’t work in my mind.
–––––
Sometimes, when I am in a disgusting mood,
I think that I am like those cows.
I think that there is a hole in my chest,
Not quite my stomach, but still.
Not quite the same as getting through a stomach wall, either,
You have to get through a wall of ribs for this fistula.
You have to be able to wrap your hand around my heart,
And squeeze, like a chunk of half ruminated grass.
And squeeze, until all the good things are slopping in a bucket,
Until there’s nothing left but pulp and chlorophyll.
Until there’s enough in the bucket to fix the sickness in you,
I hope it heals you right.
I hope it makes it all better,
Because it makes it all the worse for me.
You might have noticed them,
As you were driving down the interstate
In rural Oklahoma.
Fistulated cows,
We call them,
Because of the special little tube,
Uniting their guts with the world outside.
And sometimes people reach right inside,
Fish around in the juices,
And pull out chunks,
Just for science and medicine, of course.
Because there’s this thing called transfaunation,
Where what is squeezed from those chunks,
Is put into the sick cows,
And makes them better.
It rests them,
Puts them right,
Rights what all is wrong,
With their ruminators.
And did you know that cows have four stomachs,
And I’m not satisfied with any explanation
As to why,
It just doesn’t work in my mind.
–––––
Sometimes, when I am in a disgusting mood,
I think that I am like those cows.
I think that there is a hole in my chest,
Not quite my stomach, but still.
Not quite the same as getting through a stomach wall, either,
You have to get through a wall of ribs for this fistula.
You have to be able to wrap your hand around my heart,
And squeeze, like a chunk of half ruminated grass.
And squeeze, until all the good things are slopping in a bucket,
Until there’s nothing left but pulp and chlorophyll.
Until there’s enough in the bucket to fix the sickness in you,
I hope it heals you right.
I hope it makes it all better,
Because it makes it all the worse for me.
The trees drip with leaves
On nooses of green vine,
Like the air dropping with heat
Putting sweat on glass and skin,
There’s magic on street corners,
Women with moving snake boas,
Gazing into crystal balls,
But I like to shake for my answers.
Men tuck themselves
Into feathers and sequins and spandex,
Dance behind fans
And a bakery of makeup,
Skinny legs and stuffed bras,
Wigs like a car payment.
Can they really see my future,
All these witches and soothsayers?
Can they see my past,
Is that why they look at me like that?
Sad eyes
Turned down away from the sun,
Burnt out
From this Louisiana summer.
On nooses of green vine,
Like the air dropping with heat
Putting sweat on glass and skin,
There’s magic on street corners,
Women with moving snake boas,
Gazing into crystal balls,
But I like to shake for my answers.
Men tuck themselves
Into feathers and sequins and spandex,
Dance behind fans
And a bakery of makeup,
Skinny legs and stuffed bras,
Wigs like a car payment.
Can they really see my future,
All these witches and soothsayers?
Can they see my past,
Is that why they look at me like that?
Sad eyes
Turned down away from the sun,
Burnt out
From this Louisiana summer.