a poem is built from the ground up. you start with the last line and say, here, i will plant you. and you will grow and i will be your mother. how great does it feel to be able to make whole things, to be able to take them back inside you at any moment. when they are acting up, to say, silly child, don’t think I can’t undo this. and then you let the poem grow. the last line is the seeds and they are snug rooted in a bed of sureness and clarity. a poem is urgent. a poem feels like having *** with myself, because afterwards I am tired and feel like I did something. And I am the Mother, and so am I, on my hands and knees doing ***** work and looking feminine. And me and her are going to raise a family together. All the things I create are going to be in my likeness and my girls will have pink lips round like quarters and my boys will always treat girls right and they will never have a daddy to look like or to miss. And I will say I love you, poems, and they will say, I love you, too, Mother and Mother and Mother and we will be happy.

there’s something unsettling about convenience stores. the fluorescent lights resemble some planet far away from here. neon signs with a letter broken, now flashing “be r,” beckoning the broken, the damaged, the lost boys. the home of those who don’t fit in. they buy the greasy pizza, rubbery hot dogs, and chemically nacho cheese which imitate something edible but scream danger on the tongue. haunted by the souls of the the pimply teenagers working the register, lips stained blue from blue raspberry slushy, slaving through the evening for the nocturnal souls buying milk and bread in the wee hours of the night. hushed arguments on the phone about forgetting to buy toilet paper and why don’t you ever pay attention to me. the pungent smell of hair dye boxes, the stink of attempting to be someone you’re not. skeleton children with messy hair, ***** fingernails as well as thoughts, up to no good back for more cherry cough syrup and furniture polish. soon after 3 candy bars will be found missing from inventory. detergent bottle caps, once neon, now faded with gathering dust, residing next to a dented can of campbell’s chicken soup. an organized chaos. the land of misfit toys.

I could say that I only have eyes for you but I know one day all I will ever see is black and an empty side of the bed. But please know that I will still yearn to see your face. I would travel through hell and back just to find you.

I could say that you will always be in my mind but you mentioned the other day that you don't like being confined.

I could say that your hand fits perfectly in mine but lately, my cup of coffee provides more life than your fingers. But I would still hold a pen & write for you if it makes you less sad.

And I could say that you have my heart but yesterday you threw it on the ground then said, "Find someone else."

I don’t really mind
the rain
The pitter patter calms
Yes, you may
soak thereafter
But clothes can be
dried
The same goes for your eyes
Go ahead
and cry your heart out
I won’t mind.

I woke up to her,
drenched in wine
and mascara tears
I woke up,
wore my dress
and
stared out of her window
as if it were mine,
as if I had the right to
undress her fears
and throw them
on railway tracks.
I woke up and I
couldn’t look at her
without cringing
the bruises,
the tender skin,
the way she screamed
through the night
and held my body
for safety
I woke up and I
felt her drift away
from everything
we have known
I woke up and
I shouldn’t have
woken up.