trigger warning: homophobia and then, it was my second time hearing “the l slur” my father was born from a barber shop to the left
of my grandmother’s laundromat. he grew up and grew back and married the hair comb his father and his father’s father wielded, everyday, my nana to be drove him up their holler in an old brown buick —always late, always to pick up my mother. scolding him for his tardy slip, my nana to be wore a cross around her neck: held it, prayed to jesus every morning, lunch, and night. she told me once that she wasn’t irish, she wasn’t catholic. 23 and Me reports she was wrong. 25% ireland, 75% bible belt, I wonder: are You what you grow from? my first daycare was a sunday school. then i was grape juice and crackers. my father dreamt of walking in that church, in my wedding. no one prepared us
for what was to come. our brain, body, and spirit now changed. where curiosity once lived, burdens now lie. was it for the better? a bird in its cage
cannot fathom the ache felt by a girl desiring to create i try and i try ponder and feel peel a tangerine but i still don’t feel real is there something inside of me? a messy note tainted with blood “you could do something bigger than this” repressed from exploding unbeknownst to knowing i am not glowing should i keep flowing? when I die
bury me as a tree grind my bones into the finest ash mixed with fertilizer into that of the weeping willow tree when i die bury me as a tree so i can be reborn to provide shade for the tired passerby shelter for the homeless home to nest wandering robins and swallows and the rope swing that decorates my branch - dad’s gift to his little girl when i die bury me as a tree build a bench underneath my willow curtains to let the elderly couple sit they reminisce their love on their 56th wedding anniversary when i die bury me as a tree my trunk hopes to be carved with hearts and initials of young lovebirds unsure of their own fate after sharing their first kiss under the weeping willow tree She opens the trunk of her car. Trash bags tumble down, coming untied. I glimpse girls’
clothes, probably juniors’ sizes, a flower-print backpack, sandals, and headphones. She crams the bags full again, her eyes narrowed, her face drawn. Her hair’s disheveled. Graying. She reeks of sweat. Seeing me staring at her, she flips the bird, rattling off a string of swearwords. Jerk. She climbs back into her car and peels out of the parking lot, her tires screeching on the hot pavement. I haul her crap inside, all twenty-eight bags of donations, muttering to myself. The job done, I grab today’s newspaper. Reckless driver kills seventeen-year-old girl, the headline shouts. There’s a picture of the victim. She looks just like that woman. I long to touch her but fear
the lash of rejection my touch may incite. Sometimes, she needs a mothers love, though to voice such a need would leave a soured scent on her skin no amount of perfume could erase. Occasionally, she emerges like a frightened rabbit from the grip of the unreliable narrator claiming squatters rights in a recess at the back of her head. And all I can do is wait. Wait on the sidelines in the hope one day she’ll throw the ball my way and I will still have it in me to catch it. ghosts
we are like ghosts in an old library. not quite knowing what we’re doing or what we’re looking for. searching for. if that is, in fact, what we are doing. a tether so forged in the fires of friendship. two sisters, not of the same blood but kin just the same. two apparitions, two spirits who know how to be alone together. feel that quaking sadness together, and still have no answers. no resolution, just an open desire to live, to experience more. there is something to the act of exploration that is healing. It is March again
with drowsy Dahlias on my terrace swaying to the tune of the gentle zephyr As I hide my face under my thick blanket I realize that the piercing winter is departing with wistful eyes that are moist with tears ruminating on what you put me through years ago This act of being a champion in forgiving and forgetting is slowly becoming difficult to continue how long can one hide? there is a limit to everything How can I conceal what is inside my heart: a fusion of brokenness and light this light has been suppressed for so long that it has started doubting its potency how can I hide that which has made my countenance perpetually grim? I so often ignore these things in a futile attempt for survival,
But I know they will erupt into something bigger. What will start as something so small, so miniscule, Will eventually erupt into something I cannot contain with any amount of perfection. It’s like waiting for a pot to boil, except you forget about it and leave and the house burns down. You still have to sleep in the house, though, because it’s your only house and you’re a child. So you lay down in the remains, where there are no walls, only boards, and try to sleep. Maybe one night it will storm and there won’t be a roof or walls to protect you. When this happens you will just let it hit you and freeze. You will welcome the numbness. The next day you will get up and start building the house again. It will not stand long, but what’s important is that you rebuild anyway. I like the girl dogs the most,
how they care so easily, licking and curling around their pups. I like their girl dog greetings, Wiggle your tooshie, honey, wag your tail! Is that what you mean when you call me a “bitch”? Because somewhere inside the smooth skin of my body, there beats a small but weighted howl flowing from life’s force. Don’t you want to know? Don’t you want to place your hand over my chest and feel the heavy beating affectionate creation that thinks, that knows, it will bond with the newborn. And yet after all I’ve done, you still snarl “bitch.” |