salvaging

Keep falling for boys that can't love me,
trying to salvage what's left of us,
children of the age where the war is never won—
like backroad trucks pulled by magnets away from ourselves,
sold for spare parts.

To distant from that loss, of being wantneeded in the world,
I salvage
other things—
cedar planks by the railroad tracks
where bone-thin birds nest—
these once were a barn,
held sweet hay, thickropes calmcows
some young man's livelihood.
Piling them in my truck, each splinter
is a hail mary, a curse I let rest
against my teeth. The house of love
is not filled with velvet or satin,
covered in glitter or stripped clean of
bright hair, or even bound in black leather...

As a child I saw houses collapse in upon themselves
like trees falling, some ghosts's life
imploding nail by nail,
sometimes for years.
Houses came down and fences
went up. Dad told me how lucky we were,
to have redwood fence posts,
their invincibilities
while my life continually crashed down
around my ears, left my sparrow bones
ringing shrill as bells.

I could barely see over the
blessed golden grass
that fed each sweet-eyed cow of ours,
clambering over russet posts
I thought I could smell the sea,
the shaded dirt, baby ferns curled
like sleeping cats—I thought
why not build
with this
as the years got leaner and leaner
and the boards on windows I looked through
were torn at by breezes and typhoons,
sometimes pulled off by pianist's fingers and
doe-eyed promises. Saving relationships--
with my father, girl-dog, old car,
these boys that come to me all soft hands
and words that twist like willows
is a dusty age-long fight,
a journey by bus and foot pushing
a shopping cart, folks avoiding
your crusted crinkled eyes, and you trudge
up the road towards a dirt floor
and missing walls and sagging cross beams
and a single chair you could never find
a cushion for, thinking why am I trying
and how will I eat tomorrow,
staring at a pile of redwood planks
as boys leave helplessly,
wordlessly,
one by one.

Some step on nails,
some I send the dogs after.
They never think to bring tools
but termites, magpies come in their wake,
a reverse plague of reminders and constant cleaving.

When the fences go down
the houses will still
be falling, ravens always at the door
as I struggle to lift one
last beam
one steady once-tree
to keep the roof from caving...

in which the ocean crumbles

another "I have so much anxiety it sings me to insomnia" poem. I highly recommend Octavia Butler's "Parable of the Sower" if you want to experience the full-frontal panic-inducing apocalyptic beauty that brought this baby on.

A million times a day I go to touch myself—
hands warm from washing dishes,
the quick shower—
but forget, fingers poised partway
or find only slick ashes that stick
to your fingers, flake
into the measly dinner
my body a dogged reminder of
this constant cracking, crackling
the way glaciers slide of mountains
heavy, slow, and great.
Chaos is the whisper that begins
the cracking ice:
god is change. Conflict and order
yin and yang, here and not,
blank paper and that covered in
my shaky hand, blank face or
myself curled, sobbing –

A million times a day
I put a hand
to my own heart
as if to hush a child,
then remember—

what we learned that rainy Monday evening
that to suppress is to damage,
that to shush that I am
angry I am
stupid I am
afraid
Oh god how I hurt
is to press black memories into the muscles
like a branding iron—
hands sliding down my throat I remember
the ways to heal them—
shaking crying laughing
sweating talking raging
orgasm, I want to add to the list
on the board. Coming, and singing,
dancing, but my mouth makes no sound and the professor moves on.
I realize that we do these things
in the first six, crygasms and gigglefits
the song of soft talk and dance of your eyes,
when his face twists so angry I fear for
more things than usual.

I can’t bring myself to any of them.

Even the height of pleasure or the
low-slung weight of violation bring only
a fitful trying sleep and the welts
burn deeper, seep anew.

Black and white, yin and yang
conflict order—everything is
constantly falling apart—
schoolwork, poetry, my clothes
scattered like wind, money,
the tenuous threads of friendship,
when we hesitate to say love,
my health, my grandmother’s,
all our futures—
and I clasp it all together like hands
like ash being pulled by the wind
I grasp, it crumbles, I grasp
each morning and my breath
shatters the semblance of control
like ice in the leftover mug,
the maya I attatch to, illusion worth
breaking down for like when you
miss a lover’s hand on your stomach
in the icy dawn, to howl like ocean wind
for that regimented absence—

the same soda and vodka that
swirls in my grandfathers’ glass,
sea wind that braids herself
into me, urging my belly to soften
at each cresting wave,
sandcastles rising and melting again
but sometimes
it is too much
and the saltwater burns and my
bird-bones hate the riptide, the
winter sun of friend-family-heat is
so far away, too far for my
leaden legs and weighted heart
to push towards, like wheeling gulls
clean air, the blip of blue sky

as I scream ocean into my lungs and breathing
at once
doesn’t matter
and
is everything.

Everything
crumbles,
changes.

We build, it breaks, every minute
hour year second day every blink
and that is the only constant—that there are none.

I put my hand to my neck,
a thrumming necklace, the pressure
of possibility, a sweet
reminder - remember
to slow down,
catch up. Still no real release—
anxiety sits like a sunken ship
and fish nibble on worries
more ancient that this little body
of mine. What would it take—
warm hands on the skin,
lips against my curved shoulder
like blessing a ship’s prow—
to unlock it all— but still
there must be movement,
change; stillness
means sinking, means death.
There is no stopping.
Our blood will not always
beat in time, if this instant,
if at all, to kiss the thin skin
over my pulse is a plea, not a promise—
a question I can’t answer
in surety.
Waves recede eventually, and there
are branding irons, hammer-fists, at the bottom
of all the oceans,
waiting on every high ground.

The smallest mistake will undo me
into an unraveling fractal, uprooted oak—
a child’s hand-written note,
leaving a crisis at the doorway
a boy’s offhanded “hey, faggot”—
What I know I cannot save.
The same tears erupt when others echo
what my heart’s been singing, what I know
I can snatch away before it sinks.

Dialectical—two or more states
that cannot exist alone, that
reinforce each other. Conflict, order.
Father, son. Bitch, beautiful.
But do they necessitate? Can I ever just
breathe in, keep holding you, step
forward, swim upwards, grasp hands
like ropes and anchors?
Dialect varies by region, so what
are we speaking here, lips blue with cold wind,
what moon am I singing this to, what words
whispered against my salt-heavy skin
will bring a raging, shaking, healing sleep—

token 4th wave ode to my stretch marks

token 4th wave feminist tribute to my stretch marks
or
what they don't tell you:
-------------

they will fade.
first blood’s red
then pink
rose
silver

boys get them, too.

they come back.
deepen,
move with you
diminish
rise and fall like the tide,
daily scratches on a cave wall

Nobody good
will turn from them.

Not in locker rooms,
slumber parties,
fittings, yoga class,
the bedroom
your local gym

The fading light softens
our skin transluscent and
he draws his head down
towards mine, eyes creased
with worry and wonder—
Did they hurt? He asks and I
bite back a laugh at his somberness,
fingers eking out mysteries
from these divine/benign welts

No, never, I whisper, smiling
though everything else
did—these are reminders
of those growing seasons
that stretching and soft breaking
and melding together again
like beachside salt-water taffy

fit into too-neat wax paper
left in the sun to weep
cherry tears, melting in
some boys mouth,
bluntly spit out—

until you realize as that first
real lover
kisses each scar

that jock was too young for you anyway, you really like girls, father was a terrible communicator, boys are really hot, romance is everywhere, marriage is overrated, mother was right, poetry means ecstasy, buy it if it’s on sale:
the universe cheers for you
if you just close your lips
and listen to the creaking sound of growth:

the way their eyes widen as you unbutton.
one of your sighs.
His fingers on you, lightly, again
that astonished murmur
as you lose yourselves to lust
Can’t believe you didn’t feel
any of this—Oh, sweetheart
you have no idea—

they are just scars, to him. Yours,
which make them all the more
wonderous, but still. Simply
what was once whole.

One woman called them her minnows,
a flock of ever-fleeing silver
spinning through her body.
Another, fingerprints
place-markers on hips,
breasts, back, for where
her wife’s hands should be because
partnerships means sharing the dead weight
you thought you’d be carrying
your whole life alone,
sharing of the skin-gifts that
with a mirror, a certain skirt or tie,
made your eyes flash and
your heart grin,
limbs that made life with yourself
a little less lonely.

For now he traces the
small weights of my breasts—
pears beneath the skin
new-soft with spring but marked
with weather and wear—
he’s still hesitant,
heart measuring my words against
the nerve-endings, surface area
high school anatomy classes
and filched copies of Maxim

One day he’ll see his
bus driver’s stomach swell
like summer berries, her
soft smile as she punches his ticket.

he’ll study
his elder patient’s shoulders
his spine peppered with dimples
stretch marks from a 10th grade
growth spurt, pretend to
test his spine as they talk basketball—

he’ll remember at 17
the cramped back of the station wagon
how every girl’s scars sparkled
under the yellow streetlamp.
her body slack from want and innocence

the same way his wife
rolls out of their bed, unaware
of the graceful coordination between
solid calves and sloping neck and
milk-heavy breasts—
worries weighed in their lank hair
and sleep-soft eyes as she
stretches, nude,
life-scarred body extended in desire
for the top shelf,
an old college t-shirt.

he’ll realize in the waiting room
the steamy frontseat
amidst the warm, worn sheets
and you won’t have to
spell the words
with his fingers
on your stomach

you won’t
have to tell
him a thing—

when it rains it pours, part II

these days I smell of darkness, the dank new earth—
whiskey sweat, melted butter. sweetness left to age.
these dorm halls are caves, but why I chose this tall building

in my hotbox cell I wake moist, every time
blissful alone warmness, only my throat rasping dry—

boy leaves room as I walk by from brushing my teeth
(communal bathrooms, mock intimacy, irony trails..)
I hear his tongue on his lips, words rolled around
in his teeth, wet, skin dark for one so young.
What did she say she found here—“This place is
a suckhole for subarbia”, and I know that’s what
shycasual boy is thinking, his room across the way from mine—
my soul stretched beyond injustice this town, these kids can feel—

wait

when did I become her? the girl with hips and the mystery,
woman of closed doors and eyes that reflect the fires under our feet—
the girl
boys
want. What happened, love? Who changed?
The honeyhaired child you fell for?
Unafraid of big love and frightened of fire? Now, the opposite—
If we met again, (meet) still don’t know what I do. I imagine it
most days: you invade, dumb predetor
seeking something deeper than jaguar's teeth you wear. my tongue lashes.

Goddamit, heart says, you hurt me.
Every boy I know would be so surprised,
not at the strength,
but those passions. the way I sweat malt whiskey,
love that smell of tobacco in his t-shirt,
need to sleep and seek caves. that depth.
I’m still not sure how they’d feel
about the wounds behind it.

remove, rewind, slow motion

Poem taken down for two really good reasons:

This girl

helped to create

this mag.


It looks like good times. I'm pretty excited!


(thanks to davka for the heads up... Tomorrow I get to sit through three student assemblies and story-times, so I'm heading to bed... I haven't even started it, but I love my job. :)

Dear Universe,

I want-need, in this order:

1. To have my ideals, intellect, goals, ideas, and body mutually respected--not overprotected or singularly revered.

2. To be held.






With love, T.


(I could say a million other things, but honestly: this is what I am starved for.)

tactile poem

I could (should?) write a poem, a book with how I've not been touched, how disconnected and a lost and empty it's made me feel in my short lifespan. I was born premi and spent part of my life in a box, always getting sick so that I could go home and feel loved, safe. (Having a comprimised immune system and chronic underweight-ness helped, I'm sure). My own wounds have kept me from intimate relationships, my own self-sabatoge has frustrated me for seven years, before realizing I'm not ready. Your body knows what you do not, and my desires don't line up with my needs. A desire that goes deeper than sex or death, deeper than your fingers around my wrists or my lips on his neck. Skin on skin is soul on soul, desires and needs I'm still trying to reconcile...
---
tactile poem

It is only touch—it is only through touch,

that I find myself

wanting:

pianist hand between my knees,

fingers long enough to

crush love from down the road and even

those caresses I savored; massage chair

beating the back of my heartbeat to submission;

only imagining your palm a sail in the

wind of my jaw do I find my skin

opening like a door, pores faceted,

crystalline when touching the other we

drink until oceans empty, exchanging basins.

But the fingertips, your stubbled cheek,

they still thirst. My aching hand

stretches across the table

of its own accord.

Even my blood is parched,

gravitates toward your nearness

as though trying to drink storm-winds,

laden with water but achingly empty.

Electricity lying with the mountains,

with the heavy clouds,

rushing over my head and all of me shivers

at the mere thought of thunder,

having only dry winds about me

when it hits.

When moving, towards high closet shelves

fingers reaching for the last grocery bag,

wrestling a child into her coat—

each stretch is a gateway,

one side gaping open while the other

falls into itself. How to balance it?

Muscles must move like lovers,

a ribcage apart but with give and take,

though too much is always taken,

so that the skin lies above like a window

and everything peers out in

snap-straight shaking fear:

at the storm that shakes the glass

at the emptiness that whips around

this clapboard house, colder

than west wind.

(all work (c) treesa, under all psuedonyms and pen names, 2008)