My headphones play the song of your voice
And the words you spoke as I whispered my fears to you.
I find myself tapping my feet
To the rhythm of all love:
Chasing, cherishing, regretting, forgetting
One, two, three, four
It’s a beat my heart has been conditioned to hear
Since my mother taught me the song as an unborn.
Just like her,
I know you’ve kept my secrets secure,
And unlike you,
I have not forgotten our midnight promises.
I can’t help but close my eyes every time I long
To feel the warmth of your smile that night in August.
And there, behind my eyelids
Your image is burnt like a childhood memory
Unwilling to be forgotten.
I stare at what I remember of you as the beat pounds in my skull.
“Forever,” you had said.
“You and me- just the two of us- forever.”
It’s a shame our forever was only as temporary
As your breaths in this world were
And now that I know we were never meant to be
I’ll hold this song inside my head
And your image in my mind’s eye
Until I am forced to forget you
Inspired by H.A.
in city park a crow laughs,
while a girl scatters
rhinestones and crumbs.
the bird hops childlike
over the warm cement,
from his beak.
a frowning man
at the bus stop
probes the folds
of his wallet
for a bus token.
She gnawed at his flesh
She clawed at his skin
To fulfill her filthy sin
All this displayed
All of her hate
He wore on his face
And in the evening
After the bleeding
Pass the bruising
He’d sniff and snuffle
His body would crumble
With all of the despair in my heart
He was told to remember
As His will was dismembered
And His spirits were crushed to the ground
This was all your own doing
Even though she was stewing
No fault of hers will ever be found
Let them forget the little I did
but always remind them that it was my dream
to change the world, and I started with me
for there wasn't a fulcrum long enough
and a point on which to stand on whilst I
move the world...
Let them forget who I was but the one thing
you should never let them forget are the words I wrote
for it was only such moments when ink bled on paper and
my fingers hurt typing on a keyboard that I was truly alive
Otherwise I was just a lost Gypsy wandering through
a wrong generation...
They got to me and Danielle knew
this was hard fo me.
She gave a small preface before I spoke
and I stood there next to my art
with my arms wrapped around me,
my hands cupping opposite elbows.
"Closed off body language"
is what the curator called it later.
She's also a psychiatrist, go figure.
My voice shook the entire time.
I think I apologized for it at least 10 times.
I wore his bracelets like I do everyday,
even though they are worse for wear
and I am afraid they will fall off.
At the end of the talk, I was
fiddling with the metal clasps.
The curator shrink called that "fidgety".
I told them how the title of
More than A Collection of Bones came to be.
The title was something he told me
when he was mad at me for something
I had been neglectful of.
I told them he inspired me
to be bold and made me feel strong
and beautiful, even though I felt
stripped and damaged.
I was more than a collection of bones.
I am a woman. I am me.
Quoth the Raven was more complicated.
I explained some of the symbolism
in the painting and that like the poem,
"The Raven", I did this piece
as a mournful remembrance.
I closed by saying all my pieces
from this series have 3 things in common.
All three things are secrets of which
only one other person alive was aware.
During the Q & A, I was asked
about my process, my background in art,
and my mediums.
One question stuck out,
"Will you continue this series?"
I said in response, "It always continues
in my life and in my head and
in my dreams, but I feel very closed off
right now and giving it a voice,
recording it on paper seems scary.
Only time will tell."
Then I apologized again
for my shaking voice.
There were words once.
Meant to be heard and said across
various distances, sometimes
an eternity, seemingly, continents
pushed together into one, sometimes
a whisper, momentary, finally, lips-
they say things that very often mean
nothing. Nothing she says. What's wrong he asked.
Many things. Nothing at all. You press play
and something sings in your ears and you
wait for another flight to somewhere.
Nowhere feels everywhere at once, always,
which is why we built these planes. Sometimes
out of paper. As a child I did those things.
Watched how they gleamed across the tops
of my eyes- never too far they went.