My sister howled with the dogs at the end of the street
her teeth looking more canine than theirs with her jaw-hinged open and her gums shining
as she became every house in our neighborhood
fingers woven into a chain link fence around her ankle
as if to create a barrier between the throbbing and the cool stroke of the air.
I couldn’t decide if her ankle looked broken-hearted or dumb,
slumped over like it was on a bus, snoring and dreaming of the stop it had just missed.
The sky slowed down to melt into navy and rosy tie-dye at the same rate as her ankle, although her face got there first
and I swore I heard the sidewalk crack lightening into her bone as soon as she landed,
I brought it up every time someone knocked on the door or dropped a dish until she wasn’t there to bring it up anymore,
but her hands always kept steady when she said she never heard a thing.

In the car ride to the hospital my skull trembled at the high frequency of my sisters screaming.
I crossed my fingers that she would stop, but not too tightly
remembering that ripe carrot snapping into two sound
acutely aware that I had never felt my own bones living in my body until now
how every pothole made them tingle and catch fire
and I sat ghost-still until we got home.    

I am a spread of limp appendages on a cold metal table when I get my first piercing.
I imagined that I looked a lot like my sister when her ankle fell apart
or each time she made sure to draw out her goodbyes as our mother fell apart.
The piercer clamped down on my belly button with an instrument that looked like something you would use to snap stubborn lobster legs
my belly button dangerously residing only a few skin creases away from my rib cage
skin seeming too thin to protect bone when in the process of perspiring,
like paper that has soaked for days.
I hoped that rock won against paper in an alternate universe.
Breathe in he said, like my sister couldn’t that day,
breathe out and it was over and I was closer to understanding what it felt like to have a bone double over
but I knew this wasn’t it
it wasn’t even close.

When my sister died
I tried pulling back my pinky until it collapsed in exhaustion from fighting back,
but I couldn’t finish it off, couldn’t put it out of its misery.
I wanted to know if death or a bone breaking hurt more.
Sometimes my body flushes with the thick shade of shame at the thought
that a shattered pinky could hurt more than the empty spaces,
that I would trade my sister’s dead body for the safety of my own,
that if I hide from broken bones in the soft confines of cushy couches and toddler heights,
then what does broken feel like when it defines more than limbs.

I think anatomy,
Guts twist and I am
Alive.
I think ******, and
fruit from us
and fetus lust
and atoms combust.

I think in utero
and fetal growth.

You wish and wash your *****
down and on the drain
You gave all of your healing
all away again.
So tell me is this instinct
or conscious want for you.
Being caused to be create
a mixture of us two.

Grapefruit tree blooms lush
Its proud fragrance dominates
Stirs senses...in white...

Redolence wakens.....
Mind and nostrils, side by side
Inspire and create...

'neath Sunday's twilight
Branches mate....shadows connect,
Entwine....entangle.....

Curved silhouettes form
An arabesque....of shapes
And my own dance steps...

Night impregnates mind,
Scents, trees, starry nights..are turned
To runes..........some, with tunes.

................................
(A cluster of haikus)


Sally


Copyright April 2, 2017
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan

is this liquid? i ask
myself because there's no one else
in this room i fall in love with indulgences
never falling out again
i'm a loyal lover of unhealthy desires
if you can call it desire
then i can call myself a lover
of anything that goes through my throat
in and out, in and out
i ask, is this liquid? the bed sheet
is white, translucent at the part
where i lay myself
dry

Strong, brave, and confident.
The most fearless of the land.
Bruised, battered, and worn.
She had ran for her life.
Hold on tight, and you'll win this fight.
Moving around the towns.
Until her fate was bound.
Getting to the point she hardly cared.
Her worries and fears she wished to speak.
But alas her lips were sewn shut.
Not a word. Not a peep.
So she wrote in her diary.
As if it were a song.
Not skipping a word. Not a single word.
As she hid where she thought she'd be safe.
Where the gestapo couldn't find her.
But one day, there was her fate.
Only 15 years old.
Until this day.
Right in front of her.
The camp that carried the disease into her.
As she and her sister both died.
Would she have lived?
If she had ruled the land.
The only thing left was her diary.
Not skipping a word. Not a single word.

When I come home at night
I lock my doors
and draw my shades
like an allegory of something
long forgotten that itches
six inches deep
I turn my old radio on
and a song is sung
like a toothache
from sometime in the past
I set another place at the table
don't ask me why
for the same reason there are
no longer any shotguns
or guitars in my house
but there is lotion for my hands
each blister another
bloodshot moon
my yawn a blessing in disguise
I search the bookshelves
I built from lumber
from the tumbled down barn
I read books the dead light
their stoves with
and some that howl
like a pine on a ridge
and all these maps
these photographs
I wasted nails on
when they hung on the wall
but I'm tired of mending
all the small holes
so I leave them there
open and empty
to remind me where
the heart goes.

You just can't help but love the feeling that you know something they don't.

But at the same time, you can hate that feeling until the secret explodes from your heart.

But in the event of this good secret, I can only watch people be oblivious and love that this secret won't stay a secret forever. Because I know something that will hopefully make them happy.

But when someone is dying to know the secret...

You can only hope you don't disappoint them when you finally tell them what it is.

Because you've been holding this secret for 3 months.

And it means something to you.

Hopefully the same applies to them.

Go out and change the world;
Only you can change you. Show
Others Kindness and end the hate.
Differences makes us unique.

Together is the way
Only way we can make this world

Better.
Everyone has their own beliefs, opinions, views

And we can agree to disagree--that's okay.
Life will be alright if we all got along.
I** know it ***** and hard sometimes-everyone struggles-it
Varies-person to person, but we'll be okay.
Each day is a new day-So live it like it's the last.

(Happiness happens to when you worry
About you not what others might be doing. Your
Life is yours not others--
Live it your way and forget the rest, but give respect-
Everybody has a right to
Live their own life the way they want.
Understanding all beliefs are out there is okay not
Just your's- No one is perfect, but together-maybe
All of us- can end this
Hate in this world.)

in the river of good company

I dedicate this poem to
Mr. Harlon Rivers,
one of the best poets (here)
and from his good company,
i could drink all day and
never be quenched

~

Preface

sometime, the heart wants it wants,
denial, temporarily from your vocabulary, excised

sometimes, beauty keelhauls you, gets you
awestruck inspired, then arrogance overcomes
the brilliance of common sense and you go ahead and
mess with perfection despite every sensor flashing
uh oh, duh, oh no, fool on the premises, lockdown needed!

do believe this condition can be found in the medical books
under I, for Inspiration, Incantation, or S for Stupidifacation

my heart wants to write a poem,
cause I was a witness, sitting twenty feet
from the heavenly crime scene,
and every intonation swept my brain into that secret place,
when I heard KD Lang singing "The Valley"^

~~~

in the river of good company**

simple sentiment but good god
all I ever wanted and so oft lacked
such was my fate, one I made,
had plenty good words for boon companions,
the occasional touch of a woman rippling waves
cross my face, a love lapping slapping
of concentric pebble rings,
till like most good things
gone good goes bad,
it just happens to evaporate and
you think someday, maybe,
you will walk again in good company

the brain says quit right here
but the heart brooks no damning tantrum of sanity imposition,
for those handful of deepest, not quite six feet under
palpitations of insensible, cutting glimpses of that word I hate so,
memories,
of when
you walked in good company

men women no different - it is that heated aura
tween bodies that confirms that you are once again
a human being, just a being, temporarily
enhanced, elevated, by good company

so go ahead sweet talks ya, that devil id a/k/a desire, says -
one more for the road can't hurt ya,
write that poem -
and perhaps one good man, glory hallelujah, a good woman,
will read it and you can stop weeping you idiot,
do it so you will be back, nuttier but nurtured,
drinking from the river of good company,
mouthing not even dare whispering,
satisfied satiated, loving and loved
~
all reposts greatly and  grateful appreciated!



4/2/17 9:24am