Reds and golds and
maple syrups dripping
from the leaves of the trees
Greens feathering the
walls of the valleys and tickling
our feet with their cool tongues
Blues that missed the sky
and hit the seas instead
forever keeping time
with a celestial conductor
Purples that kiss the forests
and leave their lip prints
on scattered petals
like tissues on the ground
The deepest chocolates mined
from the sweetest of soils
and baked by the brazen
Texas sun
This is what I paint my face with
in the morning
and then you left
your paints
your grays and charcoals
your cigarette butts
your footprint.

Cacaw cacaw
sing the sparrows
to her tiny china toes
the shadows criss-cross
the cherry hardwood
like a board of tic-tac-toe
tick-tock! the phoenix
rises from her coffeepot
tickling her freckled nose

she scrunches her forehead
into a fan and pats her alarm
good morning!
ambles to the sparrows
sighs out the exhaust
and breathes it right back in

another day
another sheet in the reams of paper
of people
she purses her lips
into a folded envelope
seals it with a kiss
and slips it out the window

wonders if today
she'll be the one
lost in the mail

more than five times
have I sung
stupid love songs

more than five times
have I trimmed
my split ends

more than five times
have I spat out
the bitter

more than five times
have I danced
to forget

more than five times
have I walked
in your shoes

(even when they gave me blisters)

Smile, say cheese
Look to camera, teeth wide
hold it there
cheeks burning
But what if she dropped the mask?
Look away and frown.

Fix your hair.
Not big enough, girl.
Thin enough
Good enough
Not enough, don’t you try to
put a fish on land.

You have it.
When the world needs it
more than ever;
Look to the
mirror, can’t you see the great
potential you  hold?

my legs
scrape together.
like the ears of an elephant
they slap against each other
against the cool vinyl seat
they have chained me into
with a medical observance.
i squirm for comfort
for completion
for complacency
but all i feel is the rustle of fabric.
the woman stares,
her eyes caring
but cold
unblinking
mirroring a skeleton back at me.
the doctor
(what number, i cannot remember;
there have been many
nameless faceless coats
trying to help)
the doctor looks deep
deep down
his eyes clocks
sundials
scoreboards
ticking away
the hours
the ninety-three pounds
i have left on this earth.
the air compresses.
a whale in a bottle,
i rip the chain into squares
and run
run
run down the street.
i am fine.
i am invincible.
a crack
trips me up.
the world seethes red.
a stranger's hand rights me.
His eyes are kind.
and for the umpteenth time,
someone asks me.
and for the umpteenth time,
i feel my mouth
shaping the word
so empty and sterile
habitually.
"not--"
but then
i stop.
and words come up
like my offering
after meals:
forced
necessary
raw
apologetic,
just
needing to
come out.

Fidget.
The longer I sit here
as a victim of the flowers,
their moony faces
peering at me through
stupored goggles,
the more I want to
decapitate them
petal by false petal,
watching them fall to the floor.
Fidget.
The longer I am chained
to the dry ***** pipes
droning through the November air
dry paperthin hymns,
the stronger the urge to
rip them to shreds
then dipping them
one by one
into a vat of emotion.
Fidget.
I am a prisoner of the podium
and of the pew;
of the carbon-copy prayers
devoid of actuality
of love
of meaning.
The words echo endlessly
through dried-up wells
that sobs no longer seek
for solace.
Empty and stale,
they roll off your tongue
without a second thought.
Does no one mean anything anymore?
The microphone passes
from prophet to false prophet
sighing sympathetically
before returning to the leader-
even he reads his love
from an index card.
My head throbs in my hands
bursting with a burning question
and my legs sink like lead weights
under my black tights.
The ***** resonates
but I stand.
Nothing-
not the boy to my right
nor the best friend to his
not the whispers
nor the final words that
FINALLY
overflow with truth and love
not the sickening plummet of shock
from a glimpse of the honored one's face
can stop me from running
down the aisles
out the double doors
leaving petals and music notes
strewn in my wake.
What will my funeral be like?

The little girl slides into her slippers,
supple leather gloves for her tiny feet.
Her hair, though not the same copper shade,
still shows tints of auburn in the light.
I brush back a few stray hairs into place,
back to the nape of her neck, where mine stayed for so many years.
I gaze at my shoes in the corner,
the ribbons limp with depression, the elastic dog-eared and sad.
The satin is the dusty rose of evening.

I fluff her tutu and twirl her around;
Chaines come easily to her,
Just as they do to me.
And though even now I strike a picture-perfect arabesque,
no audience is there to watch.
I have passed the recital stage in life,
meaning I am a shut-down factory, left to rust;
no longer am I considered a ballerina.
No longer am I entitled a dancer,
but deep inside,
past the mismatched legs and crooked knees
and twisted pelvises,
I still am.

Her eyelashes blink up at me, and I grasp her hand
as the piano begins.
She sighs and ballet runs across the stage.
I wish the magic came without the reprimanding.
Her green eyes sparkle and her feet sing.
In my little sister, I see myself.