enpointephoenix - Hello Poetry

city lights peep through the blinds, voyeuristic result of our impatience, blinking at two bodies in a room awake, alive, on fire while the world sleeps around us. years ago, my hand touched your back for just seconds, and it burned for days. this time, i feel it outside and in, flames licking my spine, curling around my thighs, reaching up and up and --smoke thick on my lips, filling my mouth, alarms screaming on the cellular level, no truck coming to extinguish them. you echo in my nose, alcohol and salt, sandalwood and sweat, like you were made of earth and vice, like you came to anchor me to a night i thought would only happen in dreams. the sun finally peeks over the lowest buildings and we are spent; my arm around you, you fall asleep immediately. and there in the sunrise, each time my eyes open-- it's hair on fire, a sea of freckles on your shoulders, and i grin into my pillow heady with the universe's whisper: "dreams do come true, darling."

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Mar 28, 2016

Mar 28, 2016 at 12:54 AM UTC

march 26, 4 a.m.

city lights peep through the blinds, voyeuristic result of our impatience, blinking at two bodies in a room awake, alive, on fire while the world sleeps around us. years ago, my hand touched your back for just seconds, and it burned for days. this time, i feel it outside and in, flames licking my spine, curling around my thighs, reaching up and up and --smoke thick on my lips, filling my mouth, alarms screaming on the cellular level, no truck coming to extinguish them. you echo in my nose, alcohol and salt, sandalwood and sweat, like you were made of earth and vice, like you came to anchor me to a night i thought would only happen in dreams. the sun finally peeks over the lowest buildings and we are spent; my arm around you, you fall asleep immediately. and there in the sunrise, each time my eyes open-- it's hair on fire, a sea of freckles on your shoulders, and i grin into my pillow heady with the universe's whisper: "dreams do come true, darling."

27

it’s 12:30 a.m. again and dull disembodied teeth surface again and they gnaw and they tear at my stomach again and again I don’t want to sleep it’s 12:30 a.m. again and a possible hospital stay tempts me again and it’d hurt but i’d get to leave work again and again all i feel is weak it’s 12:30 a.m. again and i’ll pray that someday i’ll love teaching again and i’ll sweat a sea into my bed again and again it’s depression, not heat it’s 12:30 a.m. again and i taste tears and homesickness rising again and i curse god for bigots and ******** again and again I concede defeat

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Feb 10, 2016

Feb 10, 2016 at 1:59 AM UTC

midnight + thirty

it’s 12:30 a.m. again and dull disembodied teeth surface again and they gnaw and they tear at my stomach again and again I don’t want to sleep it’s 12:30 a.m. again and a possible hospital stay tempts me again and it’d hurt but i’d get to leave work again and again all i feel is weak it’s 12:30 a.m. again and i’ll pray that someday i’ll love teaching again and i’ll sweat a sea into my bed again and again it’s depression, not heat it’s 12:30 a.m. again and i taste tears and homesickness rising again and i curse god for bigots and ******** again and again I concede defeat

16

I. pink satin masks blood and broken toes. i keep effortless poise while knees and lungs shake. i dance in tattered tutus, in old toe shoes, for a pocketful of coins; i dance until i am blind with joy, until my lungs are full of trumpet shouts, until i am exhausted and weightless, until my audience is standing, breath gone, knowing what it is to be-- II. in the storm of applause one gnarled hand launches a torch. "you danced with me," i cry-- her lips seal shut. wild, cold eyes watch flames singe my feathers, fuse flesh to bone, floorboards collapse. she stays until she hears my heart stop. at dusk, the stage is ash. III. at dawn, a chorus of mouths emerge from the ground, my audience, full-throated, white-knuckled, tchaikovsky hollowing cheeks, nasoprotivnyia daruia; knuckles white-- flat-footed, slack-jawed, the arsonist stands-- and i ascend from the dirt on pillars of diamond forged from ash, while my bare feet spill blood and i say look at the source of my strength-- while new wings spread, blood-red and gilded and brilliant in the sun-- while fire sprouts like flowers from my palms, while spiders wrap my toes in silk and i dance on thick-tongued harmonies that tremble the earth with new roots and i bourrée across the green trunks and i become the sun

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Aug 2, 2015

Aug 2, 2015 at 3:33 AM UTC

en pointe phoenix

I. pink satin masks blood and broken toes. i keep effortless poise while knees and lungs shake. i dance in tattered tutus, in old toe shoes, for a pocketful of coins; i dance until i am blind with joy, until my lungs are full of trumpet shouts, until i am exhausted and weightless, until my audience is standing, breath gone, knowing what it is to be-- II. in the storm of applause one gnarled hand launches a torch. "you danced with me," i cry-- her lips seal shut. wild, cold eyes watch flames singe my feathers, fuse flesh to bone, floorboards collapse. she stays until she hears my heart stop. at dusk, the stage is ash. III. at dawn, a chorus of mouths emerge from the ground, my audience, full-throated, white-knuckled, tchaikovsky hollowing cheeks, nasoprotivnyia daruia; knuckles white-- flat-footed, slack-jawed, the arsonist stands-- and i ascend from the dirt on pillars of diamond forged from ash, while my bare feet spill blood and i say look at the source of my strength-- while new wings spread, blood-red and gilded and brilliant in the sun-- while fire sprouts like flowers from my palms, while spiders wrap my toes in silk and i dance on thick-tongued harmonies that tremble the earth with new roots and i bourrée across the green trunks and i become the sun

47

i feel like: a violin string unprepared for pizzicato plucked too sharply the skin of a drum after ten thousand songs beat too hard a piano wire awaiting the strike strung too taut the singer's throat called for an encore too hoarse to scream

0

Jul 6, 2015

Jul 6, 2015 at 1:46 AM UTC

played out

i feel like: a violin string unprepared for pizzicato plucked too sharply the skin of a drum after ten thousand songs beat too hard a piano wire awaiting the strike strung too taut the singer's throat called for an encore too hoarse to scream

13

I cannot steel my heart shut my mouth cease to care I cannot turn my back close my eyes build a wall I am lost-- should I leave what I love?

0

Jun 29, 2015

Jun 29, 2015 at 12:51 PM UTC

flattened

I cannot steel my heart shut my mouth cease to care I cannot turn my back close my eyes build a wall I am lost-- should I leave what I love?

11

I. Last winter, when snow softened streets and windswept ice decorated cold light-posts, you called Minnesota "home--" "koti--" for the first time. I sat across from you as a Minnesotan might-- I looked you in the eye while we shared conversation and you avoided my gaze. Face red like firelight, you smiled at all the right words and spoke softly, your thick accent stumbling over English. Each time our eyes met, a grin darted across your lips, an unspoken assent to a question I hadn't asked-- then, quickly, you trained your eyes on my shoulder-- on my forehead. Maybe, I thought, *he's traditional-- maybe my V-neck makes him uncomfortable.* II. Today, I learned that eye contact-- in your country-- is an invitation to bed.

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May 19, 2015

May 19, 2015 at 12:01 PM UTC

This Is Not An Apology

I. Last winter, when snow softened streets and windswept ice decorated cold light-posts, you called Minnesota "home--" "koti--" for the first time. I sat across from you as a Minnesotan might-- I looked you in the eye while we shared conversation and you avoided my gaze. Face red like firelight, you smiled at all the right words and spoke softly, your thick accent stumbling over English. Each time our eyes met, a grin darted across your lips, an unspoken assent to a question I hadn't asked-- then, quickly, you trained your eyes on my shoulder-- on my forehead. Maybe, I thought, *he's traditional-- maybe my V-neck makes him uncomfortable.* II. Today, I learned that eye contact-- in your country-- is an invitation to bed.

32

#1-- Legacy This city was my ancestors' town. We have laid tar on your horse-paths- a university grew from Riverview roots- you chopped firewood from the great-great grandfathers of these trees. #2-- saint cloud sounds like midnight, shoemaker: haunted cries. munsinger's melody: scurries & chirps. when TNT shatters granite at the quarry. pucks' percussion at the brooks center. buzz of summers on lake george's shore. somalia & scandinavia, singing.

0

Apr 21, 2015

Apr 21, 2015 at 1:16 AM UTC

hometown poems

#1-- Legacy This city was my ancestors' town. We have laid tar on your horse-paths- a university grew from Riverview roots- you chopped firewood from the great-great grandfathers of these trees. #2-- saint cloud sounds like midnight, shoemaker: haunted cries. munsinger's melody: scurries & chirps. when TNT shatters granite at the quarry. pucks' percussion at the brooks center. buzz of summers on lake george's shore. somalia & scandinavia, singing.

14

I want eyes that cut like a fjord; I want sharp geography, mountain-peak cheekbones, I want God's calligraphy, two thick eyebrows, shadowed sky-soot, I want lunar eyelashes tuned to the singing of the moon. I want fingers that shimmer like the aurora borealis, I want to be your palace on fire-- I want to vanish into the storm at your core, the whirlwind blizzard of thousands of cold caresses. I want lips like glaciers-- like campfires, lips that chill doubt, that burn my resolve, that etch hymns into my bones; I want a voice like a gray wolf, a growl to tremble my blood, a low song of protection. I want a room: a vault of ice, a glass-topped pod beneath a canopy of stars, a wood-walled retreat embraced by trees, with your wave-sharp eyes, your sky-mountain bones, your celestial fingers, your fire-bright lips, your-- I want things I never thought I'd want from you.

0

Apr 9, 2015

Apr 9, 2015 at 12:20 PM UTC

ambush

I want eyes that cut like a fjord; I want sharp geography, mountain-peak cheekbones, I want God's calligraphy, two thick eyebrows, shadowed sky-soot, I want lunar eyelashes tuned to the singing of the moon. I want fingers that shimmer like the aurora borealis, I want to be your palace on fire-- I want to vanish into the storm at your core, the whirlwind blizzard of thousands of cold caresses. I want lips like glaciers-- like campfires, lips that chill doubt, that burn my resolve, that etch hymns into my bones; I want a voice like a gray wolf, a growl to tremble my blood, a low song of protection. I want a room: a vault of ice, a glass-topped pod beneath a canopy of stars, a wood-walled retreat embraced by trees, with your wave-sharp eyes, your sky-mountain bones, your celestial fingers, your fire-bright lips, your-- I want things I never thought I'd want from you.

30

I. I wear the stern face of my ancestors, the apron-clad Scandinavian matriarchs who built me from rock and bone. My husband, my good friends, my family, my colleagues all affectionately name me "intimidating." They say: "You're the strong one." "We'll send you to win the battle." "They should have known not to cross you." They name me fighter, mouthpiece, leader, and stand like tin men in legions at my back. I am obliged to march on; I cannot remember a time when my feet have rested. My banner waves in the northwest wind and I hold it, dutifully, fearing its inevitable fall as my arms shake. II. My arms shake. Wind camouflages this constant trembling: the fabric of my flag whips and ripples and any falter in its course is blamed on the wind, but veins shrink - skin shrivels - muscles shake - I am no Atlas, my breath slows sharpens stops - III. I am a dry sand-castle: one touch will obliterate me. I am the brittle leaf on concrete: one shoe will shred me. I am dandelion spores on a plain: one gust will erase me. IV. In my chest beats the soft heart of my ancestors, the ruddy-cheeked Scandinavian matriarchs who built me from soft earth and azaleas. So name me weakling, broken-down, dependent; give voice to all of me. Lift this banner, and give rest to my weary shoulders. Hold me in your arms when I need to collapse. V. At times, even a general must be carried by her soldiers.

0

Mar 31, 2015

Mar 31, 2015 at 11:10 PM UTC

though she be fierce, she is but fragile

I. I wear the stern face of my ancestors, the apron-clad Scandinavian matriarchs who built me from rock and bone. My husband, my good friends, my family, my colleagues all affectionately name me "intimidating." They say: "You're the strong one." "We'll send you to win the battle." "They should have known not to cross you." They name me fighter, mouthpiece, leader, and stand like tin men in legions at my back. I am obliged to march on; I cannot remember a time when my feet have rested. My banner waves in the northwest wind and I hold it, dutifully, fearing its inevitable fall as my arms shake. II. My arms shake. Wind camouflages this constant trembling: the fabric of my flag whips and ripples and any falter in its course is blamed on the wind, but veins shrink - skin shrivels - muscles shake - I am no Atlas, my breath slows sharpens stops - III. I am a dry sand-castle: one touch will obliterate me. I am the brittle leaf on concrete: one shoe will shred me. I am dandelion spores on a plain: one gust will erase me. IV. In my chest beats the soft heart of my ancestors, the ruddy-cheeked Scandinavian matriarchs who built me from soft earth and azaleas. So name me weakling, broken-down, dependent; give voice to all of me. Lift this banner, and give rest to my weary shoulders. Hold me in your arms when I need to collapse. V. At times, even a general must be carried by her soldiers.

61

i burned hot this weekend: one unblinking flame in a toxic green sea. thousands of mouths tossing out the word "women" as if it's the worst insult their forked tongues can spit. when i cut up their faces with the rings on my fists they'll learn "hit like a girl" isn't an insult after all.

0

Mar 29, 2015

Mar 29, 2015 at 11:01 PM UTC

soon, there will be blood

i burned hot this weekend: one unblinking flame in a toxic green sea. thousands of mouths tossing out the word "women" as if it's the worst insult their forked tongues can spit. when i cut up their faces with the rings on my fists they'll learn "hit like a girl" isn't an insult after all.

11