Come clean, soul
comfort thy heart and make it whole
call your redeemer and make Jerusalem your home
count your blessings, may the grace cover that hole

Come clean, soul
breathe in serenity of meditation
birth a mentality of pure levitation
break the intoxicated deception

Come clean, soul
repent, crave for wisdom and more
rebirth, crave for peace and glow
rebuild, crave for a righteous path and grow

Come clean, soul
comfort thy heart and make it whole
call your redeemer and make Jerusalem your home
count your blessings, may the grace cover that hole.

“Woman does not emerge from man’s ribs. Not ever. It’s he who emerges from her womb.” Nizar Qabbani.

1. In the beginning
God asked himself a question and only made half the answer.
The Bible says
That when the Lord realised the world needed a woman
He searched through man, took a rib, and made her.

2. Eve, all apple and velvet.
I know you didn’t come kicking and screaming.
You, grafted onto man like a prize fruit
then cooked up like a red wine sauce all acid and hiss.
After the Bible took away the one thing it thought you were good for in the first place
it had you hold hands with the devil,
all flirtation and fashion,
made you sound like your body was empty of anything else.

Eve,
Mother of mothers.
Carved yourself from the rubble the same way David pulled himself from the stone.
Don’t tell me a woman is ever a safe place to rest.
Don’t think Eve ever let herself be an after thought.

3. On the third day
before the flood and the fire and the rubble,
God made himself a garden and called it Eden.
Or Eve.
Or something.
He stopped, closed his eyes and finally smiled because at last he had made something holier than himself.
He tried every fruit, spat the seeds like broken teeth.
Over the next few nights Eve kissed her life into Adam’s ribs,
told him it was
all good.
When The Lord finally moulded Adam from the clay of the garden, the wind whispered and knew.

4. People say that a great woman is just like a fine wine - full bodied and getting better with age.
Tell that to your mother.
Tell that to every woman who has ever fought for a cause.
A woman’s blood is worth so much more than communion but men just love a commodity.

5. I close my eyes and I am standing in a garden.
Her name is Eve:
her hands are ripe fruit;
head a forest fire;
body sinking under the weight of a great flood.
I say: “Eve how do I think myself into forest?
Will you show me how to become forest fire? All skin and bones and burning map.
You perfect absolute.”

6. So I turn back. Pull her name from my ribs like I was the first and I came from her.
And then my hands, gentle gravediggers.
And later I looked up and there was nothing except earth and light and earth and light and her
and it was over again.
So I sat down. Took a breath - the first real breath, hands shaking like the corners of pages.

7. I looked for the first time and I could see for miles.
I could see for miles.

I spent my time tying pink ribbons to my words hoping somebody would untether them.
Hoping someone would listen to my cherry flavored cough syrup poems.
I wandered around thinking up the type of person who might love me;
gentle, caring, soft and quiet.

Then you came along.

And you could undo any knot imaginable if you were given enough time.
You hated cherry flavored cough syrup and you didn’t understand poetry.
You spoke so fast sometimes I wondered if you even knew what you meant.
But you always listened to my rambles as if I were telling you the cure for cancer.

I went about my days wondering how I could have overlooked someone such as yourself.
It only took me twenty minutes to decide I only wanted you to listen to me talk.
I could taste vanilla on your lips and I wasn’t even kissing you.
I laid on my bedroom floor for hours on end wondering how it might feel to love someone like you.

I fell in love with you on March 10, 2013 when you laced my left skate.
You had a laugh like an early morning songbird; a benevolent smile as if it were always spring.
You kept talking nervously about your hands until I held them and you went silent.
This was the first day I ever thought about kissing you. From then on, I haven’t stopped.

You haven’t stopped knocking the wind out of me since.

You touched my thigh underneath the table and I think I knew then that I was done for.
We kissed on the ferris wheel and you tasted like vanilla wafers.
I think your name is stuck on the roof of my mouth because I haven’t shut up about you since.
(I hope it always stays there.)

You’re like the first warm days of spring after a harsh winter.
You’re so alive and it’s refreshing for me; who forgot what air tasted like.
I want to plant a garden in your heart and watch it grow peacefully.
I want to tangle myself within your vines; wrap myself within your liveliness.

But no matter how ardently I loved you, it was never enough.
There was always a misapprehension with us, a broken line, a word that threw off the entire poem.
I am not afraid of many things, but losing you frightened me to the point of madness.
I didn’t mean to shut the door in your face, I really wanted you to stay. I truly did.

You hated when I said maybe so I started saying it to every yes or no question you asked.
It was the little things that changed; you said my name like it was rotting in your mouth.
Our last kiss tasted like rubbing alcohol and I wanted to kiss you again just to remove the flavor.
I wonder what went was going through your head while I was breaking. (Where’s the glue?)

How little you notice when someone is here; how much you notice when their absence approaches.
The freckle on your right wrist, the quiet way you read a book, how you talk to yourself when you’re nervous.
You touched my hair like my mother did, but you left a deeper scar than my father ever could.
No slamming doors, just a quiet magic trick that left me wondering if you were ever here.

I didn’t want to show up on your doorstep years later in tears because I forgot to tell you... you’re breathtaking.
I forgot to tell you, the stars detonate because they’re trying to imitate your eyes when you laugh.
I forgot to tell you, your touch could heal an open wound in under thirteen seconds.
But it’s been a year and I still haven’t explained how afraid I am to love you.

We met again and your voice was deeper and your eyes were colder.
You still laughed at my jokes but it was quiet and aloof.
Is that the way she likes you best? Vague and jejune?
I never wanted to treat you like a poem; never wanted red ink to touch your stanzas.

Given the chance, I would love you all over again- and right this time.
I would catch your hair glistening in the sunlight and tell you, “you’re wondrous.”
I have spent a good portion of forever writing you into poetry.
I cannot apologize for not letting go, you’ve always been home.

Love me or not, you’ll always have arms to hold you, ears to listen to you babble, lips to kiss you foolishly.
Carry on, carry on, you’ve never been any less than extraordinary to me.
I can feel how alive you are, you’re more human than I will ever be.
(I love you only always.)

when you say "no" and he says "please" SAY IT LOUDER
when you say "drive me home" and he says "five minutes" SAY IT AGAIN
when you say "no" and he says "just once" LEAVE
when you say "no" and he says "nobody has to know" SAY GO **** YOURSELF
when you say "no" and he says "but i bought you dinner" GET OUT OF THE CAR
when you say "no" and he says "yes" SAY NO

when you say no, SAY IT LOUDER, SAY IT AGAIN, LEAVE, GO **** YOURSELF, GET OUT OF THE CAR, NO

No.

In this world you're
either the writer
or the reader;
the creator or
the receiver.

And school never worked
out too-well
for me.

a warm dawning sun
rises slow on hazy horizons
with winds wildly
blowing
down endless
interconnected currents
we wake up
to birds singing
timeless songs of morning
and our forgotten past
leaves us hanging
like willows weeping
in the rain