Juniper Montgomery
One morning he awoke to find
his nose had gone missing,
the sculpted feature that
clung to his face so sweetly, gone.
He couldn't enjoy the smell
of baking or clean laundry
in his afternoons spent with me,
or even the wintery scent while walking
up to my front door.
Or the lingering coffee before he closed his.
But he still had his lips, his eyes.
That was enough for me
and my button nose was enough for him
to experience every aroma.
It's been ten days since I've written.
Ten days I've been an uninspired mess.
Ten days I've had the little dizzies after standing up too quickly.
Ten days I've felt rug burn in my cheeks and cotton mouth in my eyes.
Ten days I've felt the grease ooze from my hair down my back.
Ten days I've found a home in the unswept floorboards by the door.
Ten days I've bathed in crumpled, ink infected papers.
Ten days I've drawn blood from dry lips no longer able to whistle.
Ten days I've doubted tomorrow.
Ten days I've...just...
My poetry comes in pulses,
in waves, in breaths.
Take it all, crumple it into a little ball of flavors,
and scenes,
and lovers,
and sadness,
and scents,
and magic
and swallow it whole.
Don't chew it, or grind its little letters up.
Let the vodka on your tongue sting it,
make it a little delusional, a little wild.
Let the alcohol twist its meaning.
Don't spit it out, don't vomit
because it wouldn't be the only thing sticking to the lining of the trash can.
Taste it completely, intoxicated or not,
let the little droplets burn your throat,
let the little droplets of beer stain your lips with poetic regret.
Let it consume you as the bottle does.
She's not done counting.
Sitting in the middle of the bed,
feet tucked under her,
white room boiling over with tension.
She hopes for safety.
What time is it?
The clocks don't keep time anymore.
The rain hasn't been steady in years.
The drums are no longer pounded evenly.
Portions.
Distribution.
How many months need to go by
for an understanding that the wheels,
those headlights, that copper painted body
won't roll up along the gravel again?
How many extra places need to be set at the dinner table,
how many reminders to turn the light off downstairs,
how many cold sides of the bed need to be felt,
to feel the sting of reality again?
How much longer will agony exist?
Lover please last.
Stay for a while longer.
I'll hold your coat, your boots
as long as you hold my hand.
The air is so hot out there,
so warm, so threatening.
Here it's cool, I'll turn the fan towards us.
Can you feel my silken hair on your cheeks?
Remain in my eyes love,
behind my ears,
on the back of my knees,
in between my pretty little toes,
or just under my blouse.
Promise me you'll stay.
I'd never lock you away,
never hide you,
never trap you.
I couldn't bare your tears,
your frown,
your embraces retreat.
Promise me you'll stay.
I never asked for love.
I never questioned desire.
I never denied satisfaction.
You never offered.
But love, promise me you'll stay.
April is a liar,
baptizing you with tears, tears.
April tells you pretty nothings
as it pours down on your already drenched and pale face.
"Patience dear, better things will come."
When will its tide retreat?
When will you be able to loosen your grip
on the window ledge above its raging ocean?
"Patience dear, better things will come."
Aprils tidal wave swirls around you
and locks your bones into place.
When will its sea part?
"Patience dear, better things will come."
...but April darling,
I'm already drowned.
Countless hours,
everything looks the same.
I've written this sentence over 14 times.
15.
16.
It's been a week since my artistic pride.
and in that week I've most certainly cried.
Tears should inspire, and flourish and bloom.
...but mine don't,
all they do, is bring me to doom.
But wait, what is this?
Those are words up the page.
Those verses, this stanza can end all my rage!
Perhaps I'll ignore it, no jinxing my feat.
Just write calm and steady, no excepting defeat.
Words now flowing freely, everything's alright,
but before I lose this magic, I shall say goodnight.
"...and the truth of it all
was that I'd never really let go.
I'd just distracted myself from the inevitable.
You know, prolonged fate?
and for what it's worth, darling,
I still love you.
...There. That's the actual reality.
It's out and I can't take it back.
Now you know.
I still love you."
My sweet buttercup he whispers,
his lavender hush echoes through my mind
and penetrates each curve of my inner skull.
My pretty daisy, my lilac, my blossom.
The tall grass laced with dandelions wraps itself around the both of us,
as he wraps himself around me.
The meadow hides us until we choose to be found.
Until we emerge, we are lost.
Only when the last petal is picked off,
will we be truly seen.
She’s so dainty,
with her sparkling, springtime smile.
I wish to be her.
I envy her whimsical dance
and how she prances through sunlight.
She would throw her hands up to
the lavender laced skies and twirl.
I once asked her how she remained so pure.
She replied with a pretty song.
Her voice was silver and crystal.
In that melody, I realized I would never be her.
I had to be me.
She was peaches and sunlight and sparkles.
I was the earth, the night, the moon.
I made an attempt.
I sang in the meadows and weeped beneath the trees
and for a day, just a day,
I was something of a fairy.
And as for the present me,
I want to remain this way forever.,
to remain happy as she is.
And I shall try.
But, it is late, however on my dark little corner of this foggy earth,
so I think I’ll blow out this fire,
crawl under the ground
and drift to another world,
until sunshine sings again tomorrow.
Love.
Love is like wetting yourself,
unexpected and warm.
It’s out in the open
and everyone knows
You might be embarrassed
at how clearly it shows.
But in the end,
when all’s said and done,
you aren’t afraid anymore.
You show the world what you’ve done.
Who wants to come over?
We can paint our nails with pastel colors
and experiment with our hair.
We can plan trips to places we’ll never go
and then bake brownies.
We can tell stories we’ve both already memorized by heart
and act like they’re new ones.
We can laugh at nothing
and comment on how soft my old blanket is.
We can go through my closet
and create sexy outfits
and wear them out because we’re both a little too self conscious to wear them to school.
We can get pretty for each other
and go through a random box of stuff in my parents closet.
We can plan an elegant dinner just for us
and dress up like fairies.
We can make jewelry with the little plastic beads I still have from when I was a kid.
We can be cliche and stupid.
We can be happy.
Maybe another day.
I like my dark orange hair,
the way it hangs low beneath my shoulders
and drapes down my spine.
I like how it looks in braids.
I like how pretty my toes look when I wear scarlet polish.
I like how tiny my ankles are.
I like having a little waist
and how it tilts to one side.
I like how cute I feel with my face naturally
and I like my round nose.
I like the way my teeth look
after I have Oreos and coffee in the morning.
I like my spidery fingers and my baby wrists.
I like how dainty they look when I play piano.
I like how they look with chipped nail polish.
I like my back.
I like the curve.
I like the uneven scatter of bones and ridges,
like when the plates under the sea collide and rise.
Pretty words make the negatives desirable.
I like these things today.
In the warmth of the sun,
through the forest we'd run.
Discovered by none
You and I, we were one.
You used to like untangling my braids and bobby pins.
You loved it when my knees were just draped over yours.
You said you liked the way my skin looked porcelain over your sun kissed legs.
You'd kiss every freckle and define my gentle jaw with your lips.
You never called me beautiful,
you were more creative,
more artistic than that.
You hid poetry around the apartment,
under chairs,
on window sills and my favorite,
in empty pockets for me to find when we weren't home together.
You'd hide the best ones underneath the floorboards, for only us to find.
As long as those words were hidden, so were we.
Your favorite place to hide is in the kitchen masked by flour and spices,
waiting for me to find you.
And your favorite place to find me is running the bathwater among lit candles.
You’re frightened but, there is no need for fear.
Your eyes are barely open.
Your vision is patterned beneath your thickened lashes.
Blinded, you are.
Hazed, you are.
Sick, you are.
Lying on the minted tile floor,
back arched and your head perched on a faded rug,
you roll on your side.
Tilting your head up a bit, you scrunch your face and moan.
The vicious pulse begins pounding your wounded head.
You roll again on your shrunken stomach,
bubbling over with an ocean of alcohol.
You drag your eyes up to the piercing light above you.
Adjusting yourself slowly,
your hand fumbles for the floor beneath you.
The muscles in your arm strain as you push yourself into a sitting position.
No strength.
The stained tub next to you provides something stable to hold onto.
Smeared makeup.
Hair stuck to your hollow face.
Memories scattering in the wind outside.
More pounding, but this time it isn’t in your head.
It’s booming outside the door.
Screaming and movement is caving in on you,
suffocating you.
Who’s outside?
What’s outside?
They want you dead.
You know it.
They’ll be here any second.
"Don’t speak”, he says. “You’re fine now”
You turn and stare at him.
How long has he been here?
He’s been watching you the entire time,
just waiting to strike.
He knows something.
He’s done something to you.
That’s why your in this frightening room below the ground.
He stands and walks toward you.
You must stay strong.
Don’t flinch.
No weakness.
A gentle arm glides just under your leg
and the other behind your waist.
He lifts you up and a small whimper escapes your lips.
There’s pain.
He carries you into a familiar room through another door.
The pounding from outside grows softer.
Shoulders relax.
Forehead cools.
Sleepiness comes.
He sits on the bed with you in his lap.
Suddenly your alertness fades and you feel comforted.
“How much did you do?” He asks timidly.
You lean your head back.
Funny.
“Just a little”,
your words slur from your swollen tongue.
You start to giggle.
Arms begin to sweat.
Stomach tightens.
Puke.
Tears.
Hushed.
“Shh now. You’re fine. It’s alright now. Breathe. Breathe.”, He coo's
and slowly strokes your spine.
Tensions released.
He stands and walks to the door.
“No! Come back!”, You cry.
He’s leaving.
Why?
You reach your hand out,
like a child,
but draw it back quickly.
“Haven’t I always come back? This time is no different.”
Only a second passes and you’re out.
Not all the way.
Eyes closed.
A window opens.
The fan goes on.
A blanket covers you.
He’s there.
Whoever you are,
you need to suffocate me with words,
with language.
Every little note you leave needs to trap me.
Each letter needs to pin me down
and sprinkle me with droplets of you.
Write me stories and poems and sonnets.
I want your words to love me and kiss me and hold me.
I want you to inspire me in the absence of coffee aromas and pretty scenery’s.
Write to me about the little things.
Tell me how the floorboards feel in the dark
and what mornings are like away from home.
Tell me about the draft in your room,
and how cigarette smoke feels whilst dancing past your lips.
Write about me,
about my freckles,
about my peachy skin,
about my auburn hair,
about my skinny bones.
Record the time for me.
Write about the seconds of each minute,
how that hour in the waiting room was.
What do you do in each cycle of the sun?
Whoever you are,
write to me.
You gave a smile for me today.
I knew I'd impressed you.
I must've said something coy.
You turned and gave an
I've told you about this one
look, to a face across the room.
Do it again, please, but look at me this time.
Lean your head back again,
raise your eyebrows provocatively again,
I've told you about this one
Shrug your shoulders again
Smile like that again.
I've told you about this one
But this time look at me.
We lie awake in the cozy sheets of the shoreline,
letting the infant ripples crawl over us
and then slink silently away to the sea.
Your bare legs tremble
with each gust of wind,
with each heavy breath,
with each gentle touch,
with each kiss.
The speckled sand remaining on my lips envelope yours
and a trickle of peppermint breath swims across the tip of my jaw,
as I lull you to sleep.
We are the ocean,
the turquoise kissing a burst of orange sunlight on the horizon.
We are infinite.
Yesterday was rough, but today is gentler.
Today the fog tells me it's okay.
It seeps through the open window,
wraps itself in the curtains
and finally curls itself around me.
The peppermint air embraces
my ankles,
my knees,
my tailbone,
my shoulder blades.
It whispers, it tells me you are not far.
You remain in the breeze, just like me.
You haven't been scattered to the wind, you've become it.
In the morning you rise from my raspberry tea,
and you nestle above french toast in a pan,
you coil through the glass of my shower,
you perch on the front window of my car.
And before I drift to dreams,
you wander through the fan
and sink back into the basement,
you lightly brush the edge of the counter as I close the sliding door.
But, always, and forever
you linger just above my head
and whisper like the fog.
