I can’t trust my own body.
My mind craves food,
but my stomach throws it back at me.
Thirty seconds of uncontrolled rejection.
Fifty-two of unhealthy affection.
Staring in the mirror,
my mind hates what it sees.
And my eyes turn away because each one agrees.
Thinking one thing, then doing another.
Wanting a best friend, but needing a mother.
Pain isn’t the problem,
I can take quite a lot.
But my mind is against me,
injecting poison with every thought.

i know a boy
who sits behind me
always tapping his pen
tapping
and tapping
fingertips spelling

i am anxious

i know a boy
who walks me to class
looks at me before I leave
his foot keeps
tapping
and tapping
and I keep waiting

for him to tell me goodbye
so I can go to class

i know a boy
who cannot stop

like a car alarm on
christmas morning

like police sirens
underwater

a boy
afraid of the pause
the rest, the wait, the halt
the slow motion of eyes meeting,
elbows accidentally touching
words becoming deep breaths,
hesitating instead

I know a boy
who is still a child

and over and over,
i loved him "still"

Sometimes the poem
doesn't want to come;
it hides from the poet
like a playful cat
who has run
under the house
& lurks among slugs,
roots, spiders' eyes,
ledge so long out of the sun
that it is dank
with the breath of the Troll King.

Sometimes the poem
darts away
like a coy lover
who is afraid of being possessed,
of feeling too much,
of losing his essential
loneliness-which he calls
freedom.

Sometimes the poem
can't requite
the poet's passion.

The poem is a dance
between poet & poem,
but sometimes the poem
just won't dance
and lurks on the sidelines
tapping its feet-
iambs, trochees-
out of step with the music
of your mariachi band.

If the poem won't come,
I say: sneak up on it.
Pretend you don't care.
Sit in your chair
reading Shakespeare, Neruda,
immortal Emily
and let yourself flow
into their music.

Go to the kitchen
and start peeling onions
for homemade sugo.

Before you know it,
the poem will be crying
as your ripe tomatoes
bubble away
with inspiration.

When the whole house is filled
with the tender tomato aroma,
start kneading the pasta.

As you rock
over the damp sensuous dough,
making it bend to your will,
as you make love to this manna
of flour and water,
the poem will get hungry
and come
just like a cat
coming home
when you least
expect her.

my first boyfriend bought me an etch-a-sketch for christmas
with "i love you" drawn onto it
then broke up with me on new years day
the irony is not lost on me
and i still don't know
what shook him so hard
that i was erased
i was young then-
didn't know much about life
about love
hell, i still don't
i stumble my way through it all
i often trip & fall
yeah, i'm clumsy like that
but i'm saving all my "i love you"'s
and keeping them to myself
'cause honestly,
my love is the quiet kind
it's not candles & fancy table-cloths
or nicholas sparks dialogue
no, it isn't shouted from rooftops
instead,
it's whispered into pillowcases
in lonely beds
i make valentines mixtapes
that i never give out
i catch my tongue
before it runs away
with the words
i don't have the guts to say
i keep them locked up
somewhere in my ribcage
when i see you
i feel them rattling in my bones
there are claw marks on my throat
from times they've threatened
to spill out my mouth
i cry for you
like spilled milk
as white as your library smile
let me inside
i wanna learn everything
your wisdom teeth have to offer
i promise
i will be the perfect pupil
get straight A's
in the curves of your lips
anyway,
what i mean to say
is if i kiss you
would that
be
okay?

Did someone scatter cornflakes
All over the ground?
Or some kind of cereal
With a crunchy sound?

When walking on the grass
There's a snap, crackle, and pop,
The dry summer's drought
Just doesn't seem to stop.

Lawns all around
Look about the same,
All turning brown
While waiting for the rain.

August 21, 1993