dressed up
like a monday
i unpeel chin from chest
two birds
my very own paper hands
float out across the body.
speaking only in past tense
i hate everything
about expectation i tell him
my socks and then my sweater
a lumpy wool tower by the door.
mottled in flesh bitten plastic bags
we extend
sounds from pink corners of mouths.
no one is waiting at home.
just too warm bottoms of feet
that can't sit still for long.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Monday, January 23, 2012
your wings unfold
with the hollowed bird bones of an all grown up victim
you tie red ribbon around
sandpaper wrists
done, you tell her
to react.
a self declared brush
press the warm
tricolored promise over her mouth.
to dust out intention.
you tie red ribbon around
sandpaper wrists
done, you tell her
to react.
a self declared brush
press the warm
tricolored promise over her mouth.
to dust out intention.
fear
a monster without fangs or fiery breath, it lowers towards me
divides into grapesized whispers.
unglassesed against the pillow
i rattle beneath blankets
willing it away,
open eyes
only find it trembling towards me
divides into grapesized whispers.
unglassesed against the pillow
i rattle beneath blankets
willing it away,
open eyes
only find it trembling towards me
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
from
on a paper in a grey box in the stairwell closet of the first floor
these things are listed:
a name you can't pronounce (its yours)
the color of your hair, eyes (black, brown)
the day you were born (or just a guess)
your siblings' ages
a promise that you were given
not taken.
given, not taken.
hold this close on the nights where your knees tremble against the corner you were stood in.
remember this, kneeling on the cold linoleum. a hunting rifle, the heavy in your head
pulling you towards the floor.
listen
your mother was a shaman, mu dang.
it climbs in your skin like the pain through her bones, from the spirit she let in for so long.
when she was a girl, waist wide, and hair braided to one side, her parents marched a tall brown man up a hill towards her.
theirs was a mountain covered with green, ocean on all sides.
this is where you were threaded. the eyes caught and
they pulled each other towards the main land, cold pacific air on the cheekbones.
your father had fought in a war, he traveled like you do.
without purpose but working. without money but smiling
as if the joints that moved his arms were greased with air.
thinned, he was a clatter of empty green glass by the door.
they lost their first daughter then filled her in with girl, boy, girl.
when you came along, you were a girl, but everything about you screamed second son.
he held you on his back once, and you sunk your first teeth into his skin
to say hello.
when you were a loud voice in a tiny room, he was gone.
the hospital, and then the ground
claimed like everything in this place by a man with a simple cure
temporary, like the steaming broth of your sister's cat
your mother once made to dull her pain.
Monday, November 21, 2011
subject to change
i've told this story before. it was the third month of the first grade. winter had set in, and with it an itch.
grade one brought several firsts. my first full days of "pay attention", my first long gaps of freedom from the watchful eyes of "family", from the trail or be trailed rules of farm life.
here, in this spacious brick room, i was built by something new. it felt like self. there were days, when putting one arm and then another into the quilted
purple sleeves of my winter coat, felt like standing in line to be trampled.
like any good captive, i threw up protest. my knees would begin to jump as the 3:40 bell drew near.
i took to staying seated and stamping my feet when line up time was called.
then, things escalated. my protests took the form of a screwed up face which turned to oversized tears, and sporadic out and out
shrieking at last recess or sprinkled throughout the afternoon.
it had begun virtuous enough, a pure distaste to leave the nest of distance, but by november, i had chalked myself into a full formed problem.
my name appeared in the right hand corner of the black board early in the day, followed by checkmarks and frowny faces.
soon, nearly every morning had been invaded by my disturbances.
it was late november, cold enough to see one's breath but still warm enough to walk to and from the bus, slowly.
i dragged those few alone moments like the toes of my velcro shoes on the pavement.
the day began, role call, the pledge of allegiance. something crept up my red checked dress and bit me with a new steel.
i had never felt it before, a side effect from life out from under the thumb.
as everyone rose, i felt myself stay seated. miss baker, an angel of a first grade teacher, in belted blue dress, white bibbed and bowed, with matching scuffed pumps, shuffled to my side.
in utter distress, she watched my silent mouth. the chorus had begun but she stopped it with a double clap and another clatter of heels.
my eyes focused on my friend's pigtail, my name was called, two and then three times.
i heard the now familiar scratch of my name being chalked white on the blackboard.
it came over me quickly, so fast in fact, i didn't feel it come out. a question had been shaken out and hung between miss baker and i.
why, today of all days, was i refusing to pledge allegiance to the flag?
an explanation crept out quickly. i wasn't breathing. a small voice spelled out a truth I had never heard before.
"I"m not from here." the voice said. "this isn't my country. I miss my country, and I miss my mom. i want to go home."
The reality of the words stuck to my fingers, the roof of my mouth. a beat skipped, Miss Baker closed her mouth, turned and continued the
chant. face down, I counted as the words poured past me. still and red cheeked, i tried not to think about what i had done.
Later that morning, Miss Baker closed my reading book and led me by the elbow beneath the flag, through the door and down the hall.
I counted silver and black tiles from the first grade door
to the office. I sat on a pink and steel chair while a call was made. whatever awaited me on the other side of that phone, i didn't want it.
that afternoon, i followed the feet to the bus to the lane to the farm. slow, my grey velcroed sneakers carried me up the hill. when i
climbed the brown carpet to my bedroom, she was waiting.
something was wrong. i felt the quiver of knowing in my knees. it worked its way to my lip.
i had seen her angry before, many, many times.
the way the peach colored flesh around her eyes bunched. but today was special. there was a red splotch to the right of her mouth
and something in the ridge of her forehead looked deeper and more folded than i had ever seen.
she stood over my bed, tall and still except for her mouth. the big blue suitcase lay on my tiny pink bed, unzipped into two rectangles.
the closet door was open, and the brown carpet was cluttered with my few belongings.
i watched her face change to something darker and then sharper than skin should be.
her feet planted, she was half the room or more. one hand grabbed at the things
from our three years, she had bought to be mine. she threw them at the open suitcase.
the other hand pressed down onto my shoulder until i was flush with the floor, and small.
now, more than two decades later, i am sitting on a pink bed with an open suitcase in "my country" far, far away.
and still, this moment shines so clear, when i think of her.
how i found my voice of won't and lost it on that single day.
that day she built me. she built me
from a fear and shame and guilt that we called love.
'if you want to leave so bad" ,
the blue suitcase flying through the air , then at my side
"go" she said "go."
grade one brought several firsts. my first full days of "pay attention", my first long gaps of freedom from the watchful eyes of "family", from the trail or be trailed rules of farm life.
here, in this spacious brick room, i was built by something new. it felt like self. there were days, when putting one arm and then another into the quilted
purple sleeves of my winter coat, felt like standing in line to be trampled.
like any good captive, i threw up protest. my knees would begin to jump as the 3:40 bell drew near.
i took to staying seated and stamping my feet when line up time was called.
then, things escalated. my protests took the form of a screwed up face which turned to oversized tears, and sporadic out and out
shrieking at last recess or sprinkled throughout the afternoon.
it had begun virtuous enough, a pure distaste to leave the nest of distance, but by november, i had chalked myself into a full formed problem.
my name appeared in the right hand corner of the black board early in the day, followed by checkmarks and frowny faces.
soon, nearly every morning had been invaded by my disturbances.
it was late november, cold enough to see one's breath but still warm enough to walk to and from the bus, slowly.
i dragged those few alone moments like the toes of my velcro shoes on the pavement.
the day began, role call, the pledge of allegiance. something crept up my red checked dress and bit me with a new steel.
i had never felt it before, a side effect from life out from under the thumb.
as everyone rose, i felt myself stay seated. miss baker, an angel of a first grade teacher, in belted blue dress, white bibbed and bowed, with matching scuffed pumps, shuffled to my side.
in utter distress, she watched my silent mouth. the chorus had begun but she stopped it with a double clap and another clatter of heels.
my eyes focused on my friend's pigtail, my name was called, two and then three times.
i heard the now familiar scratch of my name being chalked white on the blackboard.
it came over me quickly, so fast in fact, i didn't feel it come out. a question had been shaken out and hung between miss baker and i.
why, today of all days, was i refusing to pledge allegiance to the flag?
an explanation crept out quickly. i wasn't breathing. a small voice spelled out a truth I had never heard before.
"I"m not from here." the voice said. "this isn't my country. I miss my country, and I miss my mom. i want to go home."
The reality of the words stuck to my fingers, the roof of my mouth. a beat skipped, Miss Baker closed her mouth, turned and continued the
chant. face down, I counted as the words poured past me. still and red cheeked, i tried not to think about what i had done.
Later that morning, Miss Baker closed my reading book and led me by the elbow beneath the flag, through the door and down the hall.
I counted silver and black tiles from the first grade door
to the office. I sat on a pink and steel chair while a call was made. whatever awaited me on the other side of that phone, i didn't want it.
that afternoon, i followed the feet to the bus to the lane to the farm. slow, my grey velcroed sneakers carried me up the hill. when i
climbed the brown carpet to my bedroom, she was waiting.
something was wrong. i felt the quiver of knowing in my knees. it worked its way to my lip.
i had seen her angry before, many, many times.
the way the peach colored flesh around her eyes bunched. but today was special. there was a red splotch to the right of her mouth
and something in the ridge of her forehead looked deeper and more folded than i had ever seen.
she stood over my bed, tall and still except for her mouth. the big blue suitcase lay on my tiny pink bed, unzipped into two rectangles.
the closet door was open, and the brown carpet was cluttered with my few belongings.
i watched her face change to something darker and then sharper than skin should be.
her feet planted, she was half the room or more. one hand grabbed at the things
from our three years, she had bought to be mine. she threw them at the open suitcase.
the other hand pressed down onto my shoulder until i was flush with the floor, and small.
now, more than two decades later, i am sitting on a pink bed with an open suitcase in "my country" far, far away.
and still, this moment shines so clear, when i think of her.
how i found my voice of won't and lost it on that single day.
that day she built me. she built me
from a fear and shame and guilt that we called love.
'if you want to leave so bad" ,
the blue suitcase flying through the air , then at my side
"go" she said "go."
Thursday, November 10, 2011
patient
the third time i met you, i was dressed on purpose.
i held a small clear glass to my mouth and sipped quietly.
in a green and ivory sweater i bought because it is wool, i sit cross-legged in my room. everything in me is waiting. clenched and focused on "patient".
it's a muscle i'm learning to stretch.
the way she pressed on me tonight, above the shoulders and across the part of my back that curves in two, i felt known. i skipped home, beyonce in my ears, a foreign smile on my face.
it's dark here in the quiet way that doesn't feel scary. i step quickly over a carpet of yellow ginko leaves spread out softly beneath trees they let go of lastnight.
they let go of.
i held a small clear glass to my mouth and sipped quietly.
in a green and ivory sweater i bought because it is wool, i sit cross-legged in my room. everything in me is waiting. clenched and focused on "patient".
it's a muscle i'm learning to stretch.
the way she pressed on me tonight, above the shoulders and across the part of my back that curves in two, i felt known. i skipped home, beyonce in my ears, a foreign smile on my face.
it's dark here in the quiet way that doesn't feel scary. i step quickly over a carpet of yellow ginko leaves spread out softly beneath trees they let go of lastnight.
they let go of.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
healing
Blood. There is blood, everywhere. The boy presses a thin left hand over the hole in his leg, the red spattered pick and his missed target swim in a shallow red pool at his side. Where a minute ago, his work station cluttered a low, scratched metal table, suddenly there are hands. The older men eye the boy with sighs and exhausted pity. He shouldn't be here, a few grumble. Too young, too weak for this work. From the floor, the boy floats beneath the crowd of bunched up towel cloth and firm hands. There is nothing left to hear, to feel.
Both eyes dry, the boy watches a gloved hand grip the iron poker. In the fire for a minute, it gathers everything red from the flames, and comes close to be something warm, something promising.
The room is a quiet smell of flesh. The tall black point pulls on the boys thigh in a thundering squeal through his limbs. The reds mesh together, until there is skin.
The clutter of men disperse with too firm pats on the back, and the boy is alone. A scrap of orange towel taped to his leg, dried blood on his shoes and hands and tools.
An angry foremen barks his way towards the boy. His sudden eyes, in front of the boys. Two cements hands drop the pick onto the boy's limp palms.
Work he warns, work or leave.
Both legs crippled at his side, the boy takes a dull silver sheet from the stack on the table, he pairs is squarely with the gold metal fitting, and he pounds. And he pounds, and he pounds.
The blood caked under his fingernails, chipping off with every firm jolt of his newly made skin and twelve year old bones.
Both eyes dry, the boy watches a gloved hand grip the iron poker. In the fire for a minute, it gathers everything red from the flames, and comes close to be something warm, something promising.
The room is a quiet smell of flesh. The tall black point pulls on the boys thigh in a thundering squeal through his limbs. The reds mesh together, until there is skin.
The clutter of men disperse with too firm pats on the back, and the boy is alone. A scrap of orange towel taped to his leg, dried blood on his shoes and hands and tools.
An angry foremen barks his way towards the boy. His sudden eyes, in front of the boys. Two cements hands drop the pick onto the boy's limp palms.
Work he warns, work or leave.
Both legs crippled at his side, the boy takes a dull silver sheet from the stack on the table, he pairs is squarely with the gold metal fitting, and he pounds. And he pounds, and he pounds.
The blood caked under his fingernails, chipping off with every firm jolt of his newly made skin and twelve year old bones.
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