born into

1:

Born into a metropolis of enamel (pottery)

and

unfamiliar stains on the silverware

and

woolen sweaters that irritate the shoulder of my skin

and…..

the hauntings of smells/ lexicon /chocolate milk /aftershave

and

a haunting

no one has to know.

A strength, born of pride/ shame /need /fear /offering

A strength, stone-faced (it hurts)

When language peters out,

falls a step behind the pain and we-

Rage

we change the structure of the poem/ the ink of the pen /the words of the song/a roar:

we roar, frustrated/ wounded /powerful/ wretched      beasts,

we roar onto paper and into the deaf ears of our friends

we rattle the silverware, throw about the cutlery, smash wineglasses on the floor

we wait for penalty and

Penalty laughs

we are mocked by our smashings

 

 

 

2:

a divide in the mouth-

Hello

I want to die-

Hello

torn up ligament-

Hello

I’m in love with him-

Hello

     tore at my hair with loneliness last night-

Hello

           confused/ecstatic/help/shut up and kiss/a hole/hold

Hello

an ocean

Hello

  a drowning/a witness/a snapshot/a gunshot and

Hi.

3:

a house of sin

confessional, in the dark, to no one-

no one has to know

of the hot and tight state of the workings of my throat at given moments

and dawn breaks

like

the china and the sky, post-rain, and like our hearts at some point, breaking like the dawn.

4:

there is a secret in the tunnel-

we are all dissatisfied

stitch poetry into our stockings,

and hide razors in the linings of our skirts

crouching/hiding/waiting…

an explosion- of sound, or of silence, regardless:

an explosion.

Lay your wares on the table-

my mother/my boyfriend/the neighbor/my best friend/ when I was little/when I was 13…

a bite of the apple.

All is on the table,

we are stripped bare and open but-

we never reveal the razors, and,

we do not give away the poetry.

5:

…this is because of the limitation

of language, and the barrier of

smells, of memories, of images and touch-

what is inside the head

cannot really be spilled,

cannot be poured, like your favorite wine, into your friend’s glass-

have you tried some of this Chardonnay?

6:

No.

they cannot really flow, our memories-

they are stones,

sitting on the rock beds of ourselves

we

sing songs/compose poetry/create paintings/scream at our roommates/cry on the subway/watch films/play football/exchange anecdotes and bad jokes/try to

dislodge the stones (they do not dislodge).

7:

A quickening of pace

an urgency of the gut

a subtle bleeding out

a silence in the doorway-

we have never fully known

our friends/ our children/ our parents/ our coworkers/ our lovers/ ourselves.

 

 

 

 

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