James, 3rd Grade

Hamster-fingers, fish-lips, leopard-print skin,

Hair like a cockatoo on fire,

Clothed in marine wool and denim,

Knee-high socks and squeaky sneakers,

A pencil clutched in his paw,

His hamster fingers curled tightly

Around a yellow number 2.

James, bee-stung lipped and freckle-flecked,

Your squirrel eyes would grab at the back of my head.

Your lizard arms were too weak for punching,

Too long for swinging,

Too loose for embracing.

James, adorable though you were not,

Fascination kept my gaze glued to your frame each day.

Your ruddy plumage captivated me as no one else could.

For Women

For women who walk with hope in their throats, 
Seeking safety in a man who will call her his own,
Who believe that their voices are hidden behind 
Some man’s adam’s apple, 
Some stranger’s warm eyes, 
Some paralyzing fear that means he loves her more 
Than her father or any other man who came before,
And lecherous devils who lay by her side, 
Who say that they know her, who say, “You are mine.”
And all ownership, authority, and power belongs 
To the one who will touch you when you feel alone, 
But his hurts, 
His hurts, 
His touch only hurts, 
And he claims you as nothing with just a few words.
Don’t believe his false fingers, his sore, lying hands, 
His threatening arms, his eyes that demand 
Your sacrifice, your honor, your heart and your body, 
Your innocence and charm, your grace and femininity. 
Your identity--
Identity lies not in he who corrupts your soft splendor, 
Your sweet sensibility.
You are not what some self-proclaimed god says you are,
Not a servant or slave to those who mean you harm.
No man who is great will ever be cruel,
No "kindness" will make you feel weak or the fool
Or unworthy or fearful of any other being.
Real men cause the blood in your veins to sing.

Mystery

Here's the thing about mysteries: they can be solved. Generally. Everyone loves a good mystery novel, but once you finish it, you put it aside and never read it again because what's the point? Mystery solved.  You know everything. Unless you have an extremely shallow memory or you only own the one book, you're probably not going to read it again until forty years later. Then you'll maybe get half-way through and realize you know the ending, so why bother finishing?
The point is, I have been called a mystery before and, while I take some measure of pride in knowing that my allure lies in the fact that some people can't quite figure me out, any time I am called mysterious it irks me just a little.
Because mysteries get solved and discarded.
Friends come and go in the ebb and flow of their discovery of who you are. They come into our lives for short seasons and long seasons, and it's difficult when you find out some are only there until they figure you out. Some just like to solve puzzles.
So, I find myself at a peculiar crossroads: do I take the road of riddle-me-this and keep myself so private that no one ever uncovers my secrets or ever truly knows me? Do I keep people at bay? Keep them guessing? Or do I embrace the path of vulnerability, allowing people to unearth the clues that lead to my solution, knowing full-well that there are naturally curious puzzle-solvers who will come into my life and often can't be content with just one type of puzzle?
I want to be solved. But by someone who is determined to see more than one mystery in me.

You're Not There

All I see is the sun and your shape in the door, but you’re not there. 
Your tall, dark frame, 
Your long, gaunt face, 
Your lips like thin ribbons tied together—
You don’t speak, but your eyes say something.
They make apologies for your absence,
Humming beneath my skin,
Extracting secrets I never told you.
I call upon your never-ending wit,
Your quiet consternation,
The way you fumble melodies
And desert anger for harmony.
Your childhood scar,
Your crooked jaw,
Your hands like warm linens gripping mine—
You don't move, but your body speaks volumes.
It clings to the doorway like a dent in the wood,
Softening with the breeze,
Pulling shadows from their hiding places.
I know I've seen your shape in the door, but you're not there.
You have never been
And you never will be.

Far is the Moon

Far is the moon, and twisted is my back.
Her glowing, gauzy gaze crawls up my spine.
She pops my joints out of place,
Bends my bones,
Drags my heavy body across the dirt
And leaves me gasping.
I am changed,
Gnawing on my own foot,
Clawing at the dry ground,
Dripping with the curse of my fathers.

Discovering a Body in a Blackberry Bush

Skin stained in blackberry juice,
His neck clotted in the rubbings of berry flesh
Thorns running across his body,
Tangling around his ankles
This collapsed cage of barbed wire,
Leaves,
Berries,
His eyes wide like blossoms.
Like a stranger, I stared
Until the blood rushed to my face, and I knew.
A wooly arm grabbed my stomach
Dirty fingers crawled inside my mouth
To clutch the scream.

My Brother Died

My brother died in armor,
A cold blade in his side.
His eyes believed the sky to be a painting,
White and black.
My brother died in snow covered cavalry,
A steel ball in his chest.
His arms were bent like crooked arrows,
Still warm, but broken.
My brother died in starving agony,
Only bones and lonely silence.
His heart was just a whisper,
Lifted lightly from his ribcage.
My brother died in torn hospital sheets,
His skin was a breathing organ,
Alive and twitching,
His hands, a map of medicated oceans,
All moving beneath his skin.
All desperate to escape their prisons;
All wanting to be free;
All clinging to the idea that life is something you can hold onto with your fingers;
All worshiping the holy name of my life, my strength, my will;
All ministering to religions that birth chaos in creation;
All withering in the constant hum of wasted youth and apathy;
All wandering through empty halls, crying out for lost memories;
All lusting after brighter days with people who do not know your heart or soul;
All glittering with the marked passion of someone who has lost everything;
All bursting forth with Please! Please! Please! for time to bend to your desire;
All forcing down the bitter taste of never, never knowing--
And all measurable vicissitudes of life were thrown into
The churning sea of his weak heartbeat,
Draining his spirit from his body.
My brother died.
And he said, “Finally.”