this is a series of brief letters to the pieces of my body

dear body,
we don't always work together very well,
but i swear i am trying.

dear hands,
the callouses and crescent moons in your palms
will not be for nothing.

dear knuckles,
aren't you tired of painting yourselves black & blue
every time words fall short of the fire burning behind my sternum?

dear feet,
you know better than to follow roads that lead to dead ends.
there are better places for us to go.

dear eyes,
you have sunken so far into my skull
it shocks me you see anything at all anymore.
you're fixated on shades of gray
but i promise the world will regain its color soon.

dear knees,
stop crawling.
this broken glass is from his bottles.
get up. no more blood.

dear shoulders,
it was never your burden to carry. let it fall,
and try your hardest not to feel guilty.

dear neck,
his hands will never make a home here,
and you are worth more than one night of empty bruises.

dear spine,
stop waiting to be warmed by fingers
that would reach for another body if they could.

dear tears,
do not waste yourselves.

dear ears,
you have been filled with ghost songs for too long.
stop listening for things no one is saying -
it will make life much simpler.

dear mouth,
i know these secrets have been threatening to break my teeth
but please do not open your gates. i am not ready.

dear skin,
we have never been close friends.
i am sorry for the scars.
i am trying to learn how to be comfortable in you.

dear mind,
if i could wish you into an etch-a-sketch
and shake you clean of these bad memories i would.

dear heart,
i hope you can forgive me for being so careless.
i feel how tired you are. rest is on its way.  

dear body,
you will one day see a grave,
but it must not be by your own hands.

- m.f.

bone is bone is bone
is bone.
my hands are forever too tiny,
my hips forever too big,
and you forever the girl
who’s always wanted to leave.
when we first met you talked of
hating the palm trees seventy degrees
traffic clogged grit and smog,
graffiti covered rat sewers
mansions dotting all the hills
and everything else i’ve ever loved.
i reminded myself that some people
need more than a place with
hundreds of stars on the sidewalk
but hardly any in the sky.
when i think of superpowers
i imagine being strong enough
to carry manhattan to you on my
shoulders and all your rain clouds
in my arms.
if you ever turned fragile i would
arrange a fortress out of skyscrapers
big enough to cover all the hills,
and with tiny hands i’d point
to the clouds and make them fill
the sky outside your window;
white as bone, as bone,
as bone.

My wife, a psychiatrist, sleeps
through my reading and writing in bed,
the half-whispered lines,
manuscripts piled between us,

but in the deep part of night
when her beeper sounds
she bolts awake to return the page
of a patient afraid he'll **** himself.

She sits in her robe in the kitchen,
listening to the anguished voice
on the phone. She becomes
the vessel that contains his fear,

someone he can trust to tell
things I would tell to a poem.

What is a poet?

A poet is able to capture a feeling with words.
To adeptly potray one. single. instance.
with words.
With scribbled, illegible
Or cleansingly, typed
clear, crystal, words.

I,
am not a poet.

I am a monkey,
deftly punching on a typewriter,
finger smashing keys,
expecting Shakespeare
to appear on a backlit screen
or a pure white notepad.

I am,
not a poet.

I am the grouch,
in a trash can.
Yellow moss on a rock,
pointing south. South.

I am not,
a poet.

I thought I dripped words
like blood out of my veins.
I thought my muse,
was darkness.
Then the sun came out.

So,
I am not a,
poet.

I am a high school English paper.
I am the run-ons,
too many ands,
too many commas.
Not even a proper sentence.
I am the red-marked essay.


I am not a poet.

And I have nothing else to say.

I need a sharp
paper-thin
note.

Stretched     taught
and dried
eyes staring.

Feathers
Dipped in red
and put to parchment.

A bird's surprise
to carry a message
a call.

A warning to flee,
now fly,
and bring the men galloping.

Escape
was a factor
A pipe dream    unfair.

To trumpet's song,
and ****** battlefields
bathed, enriched
in history.

To be told
and retold.