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Mr. In, is there really no other way?
can a canvas not, at base, at heart be that wall across from that glass lamp; glares emanating from the forbidding rule of touch. Must you come in with your bleach and cloth on bended knee, on a dozen pills for that line on your forehead and curse wax for its sticking and color for never staying put. The child, small, cannot reach The place where you’ve locked their crayons away; You believe the key gift enough You’ve never believed in pineapple clouds. All that time spent getting over you,
all those years spent flirting with the notion that I could replace you, the man I loved, with a familiarly reminiscent jumble of male academic charisma. Anyone but you, any other pain than the one you gave me was something I could take. Alternating between dominatrix and dominated in my one-woman theatre, I geared up in Western black vegan leather and spun like a Turkish dervish in my dungeon, divinely orchestrating my next emotional torment, all in the name of advancing my heroine’s journey. Trigger warning: words relating to violence and death. Alludes to homelessness, Palestine genocide, mental illness, and the state of this country.
the sinking feeling my my chest informs me that we are doomed bright lights smart phones happy pills just turn it off i can’t go outside pay your bills that pregnant girl doesn’t look older than 15 don’t look the streets are crowded cars rush in urgency it is Sunday i know you looked at me you didn’t stop do you see anything? Mamma was not happy
when she received news that I her horrible daughter had ruined my beautiful porcelain skin Her bitterness only intensified when she learned that I her horrible daughter had chosen to permanently etch on my body one of the creatures she hates most a snake Smudge your face with chemicals
that promise a permanent youth, though your skin will eventually rebel into aging. Straighten your hair with oven heat even when it burns your neck pretend the marks are hickeys, pretend that someone loves you. I pick at the wound of you
without a second thought just an impulse to hurt, an itch I will scratch until bloody. Hidden under the shame of night I stalk your Instagram checking to see how much you still infect me, examine my absence like a reverse archaeologist, question if the meal tasted better without me, the ocean waves more scenic, your life better. My grandma carries salt in her purse --
Seventy-five years and no wound-ups in the hospital. An oil-tanker spilled down I-94 when her collarbone shifted like some kind of western fault. Two sprays at dawn and two in the evening — nasally vinegar-brine up my cavities push down my spine. Food is always salty. Let me wonder how long “A hunger that food cannot fill” (2)
I. A man cuts through her periphery He cuts through the music, Cutting through the soft, short hair By her ear and Removing her earbud, Cutting through her time And her thought And her peace as they’re about to take off Then he swipes through photos His knee still inched into the side of her thigh He cuts through the air with a cough That interrupts the uncaptivating nature of his story Swiped right She found herself, not repulsed by the strawberry pink Folds or the soft smatter of wiry curls But rather The way his oily pointer finger Cut through both. ripped & opened, I pour into a poem half-stripped of me.
It is a girl story napped in oil-beaned skin. maybe a rustic girl crawling into a path her mother first knew blood. before me, & the body posed as fresh daffodils. perhaps, tender & mild like two petite breasts finding expression. like the soothing fragrance of ignorance. & I held my body, the graffiti of a clean slate. & blood gushed to lift this rock off of me was my birthright.
but you. you found a reason to bury me. every day giving me a reason to carry more. i beg you to stop. these rocks are too heavy- ill drop. the weight of everyone's world collapses- onto me. but i still plead. I know this church well. The Walters, our family friends that are faithful church goers,
would drag me here after every sleepover. Us kids would run up and down the aisles when the service finally ended; stealing the pastor’s keys and army crawling under the pews to keep them from him. I’m crammed into those same pews now, the cushions on them are a gross mossy green and the thick air smells like fading incense and Chanel No. 5. It’s not the old, ornate, celestial kind of church. I think it was built in the 70s and hasn’t been touched since. The organ strikes a heavy chord and we all instinctively rise. I tell myself so aggressively not to lock my knees that I wonder if I’ve whispered it aloud. My stomach knots and my heart speeds up. If I lock my knees, I know I’ll faint, or maybe I’ll throw up. The vomit would blend right into these ugly green pews. What a comfort. SOMEWHERE ON THE SOUTH SIDE OF CHICAGO
May 12th, 1925. Dorothy “Dotsy” Elich was born under the sign of the bull and year of the Ox on the Chinese calendar. If that astrological mumbo-jumbo counts for anything, I attribute it to making my aunt the most stubborn and fiercest woman I know. A pale blue belt, golden luminescence
Where the lily wilts. Entangled with the vines beneath the surface, Divine gift to Gaia. The della robbia child. The watcher observes, They were down to their last three dollars. They had sold everything they conceivably
could live without from their little cottage – even their tin silverware. Well, they called it a cottage but it was really more of a hovel, left to only nature’s defenses. Now, they were desperate. Sylvia stared into the near-empty jar sitting atop an old linen tablecloth in the middle of their kitchen table. Perhaps the harder she stared, maybe the longer she didn’t blink, more money would just appear in the jar. Not much, just a quarter or two, but if she tried hard enough, maybe she could somehow solidify the aching hope in her heart for just a few more dollars to make it through this dry spell. A solid kick in her womb pulled her out of her reverie. Sylvia looked down at her swollen belly and let out a long sigh. She felt a flutter, like bubbles popping inside her. The baby must bedoing somersaults, she thought with a tired smile. Murdered Man in Uniform Crawling Man NOTE: The composite imagery used to conjure an impression of the stage is intended only as a suggestion of what each play should look like during a performance. Not all of the details described in the stage notes are precisely or realistically reproduced by the images accompanying the plays. These images are meant to provide a visual blueprint or shorthand for the stage and the action. Stopping On One’s Ways—Stage Image  The wicks at the ends of the candles drool lines of wax
along your skin, ash from somewhere nestles into your esophagus, shovels parcels of decay against your uvula, your mouth backed up to the teeth. Good luck breathing. Mr. In, is there really no other way?
can a canvas not, at base, at heart be that wall across from that glass lamp; glares emanating from the forbidding rule of touch. Must you come in with your bleach and cloth on bended knee, on a dozen pills for that line on your forehead and curse wax for its sticking and color for never staying put. The child, small, cannot reach The place where you’ve locked their crayons away; You believe the key gift enough You’ve never believed in pineapple clouds. & the ache starts when I see the heifer
plodding across tilled dirt, belly low & pregnant in the sunset’s handsome shadow. & she pants against the grass, ear tags swinging sublimely even in their punched-through vigor. & I go home & pull my eyelashes out in clumps, & look at my snarling reflection until my face is lost in blotchy red shadow. & how is it that furious animal feels easier than being a woman? & at 13 my mother tells me the color red is womanhood’s delicate mark but I thought red was for charging bulls & the angry pound of sweat. & I would rather trample the red flag in unseeing brawn than watch my reflection swirl he who looks upon her with whims and fancies,
can never roam in tandem with the unfathomable. the grappling chokehold the void the chains that dredge through folds of skin void of willpower. metal fragments slit through roots where gore runs down in trickles of ruby burning down raw wrists. the marks of desolation left to remain along with My cure came at night. But that is coincidence,
pure and stark as stars. When I was in the mental hospital, the only thing I did was make paper stars. On my first visit, the nurse gave me pen and paper so I could learn to make a work like hers, a meadow starred with flowers. My pages were as blank as me, vacant except for bright blue rules. When I tried to outline what I had in mind, my meadow scene was something else entirely–deep wide open space. Still, I liked what I was trying. |