White girls can get stuck too,
the same way that no money
sandwiches you between two
slices of dreams you cannot bite
into, because we cannot pay for that
school—stuck like peanut butter.

I want things, but mostly
I want to be able to stay at the
university and learn so, someday,
I can teach others too.

Teach them to love good and
truth and not care that they are
not the businessman or engineer
with a steady job.

All they—all we—have to do
is be willing to clean the bathrooms or
flip the greasy burgers if we have to.

Hands that are working and honest
are always good hands, no matter
what they do.

When I tell people I love English
and writing, the man or woman instructs me
to pick something more practical—be a
technical writer, a reporter, an advertiser.

But I love my poetry, and no one can
ask me to sell my happiness
and design for a nice house and a
maid who cleans because hubris
has rusted my joints.

I am not a hero or a martyr
for words, but I am a woman
who would humbly scrub toilets to
feed her children, write poems at
night, and be happy.

Today I am
the quiet
student who
will not lift
her hand because
I was irresponsible
and did not
have time
to write because
I waited
until the last
hour to turn
in the essay
that I had six
weeks to write
but did not
want to because
it was easier
to sit and
do nothing
and be
nothing.

I often wonder,
sometimes, if I’m
pretty.

My mother and
friends will tell me
it’s a silly question,
but is it? And what
is the answer I’m
looking for?

I know the way
my hair, in russet
mantle clad, springs
down my back is
pleasing to the eye
(at least to mine).

I know the way my
tall figure—yet not like
a statue or a pillar—
asserts itself into
the open air, similar
to a curved vase—at
times smiling, at times
the sudden night.

My hands, perfect
for piano playing
as grandpa always
said, are long stalks
of wheat that reach
toward heaven, wait-
ing to be reaped.

My eyes, green
when choleric
and hazel when
stable, are the
exclamation points
and periods of
my face—who
could interpret
my action-prose
without them?

And my face…
my face…what
do I think of you?

Are you pretty?
Even beautiful?

I can answer
this question
on my own—
without a lover’s
flattering tongue.

Face, you are
like my heart—
blemished of
course, but still
clean and pleasant.

There is indeed
a beauty in your
length and modest
smile—a forehead
too high like my
pride—but still,
balanced—but still,
pretty.

Depression is not
a dragon--it
cannot be killed
with a single
****** of an
antidepressant
or a hug.

It is not
a void or a
wave--depression
is like a
melancholy
song only your
ears know--it
sets a mood
for everything.

It is not
a weasel
that grabs
hold of you
from behind.

It is more
like lead
poured down
into each
ventricle of
your soul--
the flesh
is heavy.

Depression is
an allergic
reaction to
self-confidence
and beauty.

Like a rash,
it is hidden
under your
clothes so
no one sees.

It is the
chill in your
fingers that
no blanket
can warm.

Oedipus had
it, the disciples
caught it too--
the germs are
in the sin and
evil we see
each day
(that lives
in us).

Depression is
not a deficiency--
you cannot plug
me into the
wall and charge
me up with
smiles and love.

It is more
like a mirror
at the fair, so
shaky and
convoluted, but
it is in
your eyes.

It is a peculiar
thing reading a
poem—how at first
we stare at it like
a clock—the symmetry
of the lines, how
well they work.

But then, oh and
then when we unscrew
the gold and glass filament of
its face—how little
we knew before, how
little we know then—
ignorance begins.

The minimalism of
a bobby pin—only
holding what it
can—but no woman
will underrate its
steely arms.

Let me be a
bobby pin in
the hand of
God—holding
up the drooping
soul of a friend.

Small, but
usable—never
worthless, always
given purpose.

Adam was sitting
in the blue recliner—
his eyes, glazed donuts
of dissatisfaction—he
held a beer in his hands,
and he wept.

Was your fall
cruelest to you,
because you knew
perfection and true
happiness—or am I
the worse off, because
I can’t know what to
aspire for—what to
want?

Your crying is
not unmanly—you
have seen your sons
**** each other—
witnessed hate in those
you raised with love.

And Eve, your
blessed Eve, she’s in
the kitchen with an
apron on—she doesn’t
smile at you the way
she used to anymore.

You can’t trust her
like you once did,
since ember innocence
died out, but you still
love her.

How it hurt you,
Adam, to witness
her anguish—first
in childbirth then
at child’s death—
Eve used to think
she was beautiful, but
now all she sees is
stretch marks and wrinkles.

Still, Eve is the
only one who
knows your pain
of loss—she comes
up to hold your hand,
and a tear leaves her
eye—she misses Eden
too.

No words
left--except
for how, when
I wrote this
poem, you will
be expecting
something from
me.

We can be
selfless, you
know. We've
given all our
thoughts and
wisdom to you
for free (and
our folly).

Sure, you may
have to buy
a book, but that's
only because
we are not like
our poems and
require food.

You will
watch these
lines like
your favorite
football team
and hope they
make it to
the playoffs--
each period is
the game that
destroys or feeds
your hope.

It can never
be too full,
but it is
not a flower
rooted in the
self.

I
You are
beautiful--
not because
of your words
or eye shadow,
not because
of the way
you cover or
show yourself
off.

You, my
dear, are
beautiful
because God
made you--
and no matter
how much you
sin or *****
up or what you
love, you can
not stamp out the
seal of the
Creator on
your soul.

Don't destroy
yourself to
be abandoned
in the powerlessness
of chaos--existence
is from God
and we cannot
extinguish it
no matter how
hard we try
so why don't you
take ownership
of the love He's
been offering
you all these
years?

    II
What is so
scary about
Your love--that
we can be
consumed by
it only to
find that in
it is as river
you cannot
drown in
but only grow
in and wonder
how you ever
survived before?

You love us.

You love us,
what more
profound thing
could we ask
for--that the
Lord lavishes
His affection
on dust that
can do nothing
for Him but
everything with
Him.

    III
If you are
ever worried
about how
you treat people--
about the time
you yelled at
your sister
or mother--
you are not
vicious.

If you have
ever loved
someone selflessly,
but with a
few mistakes--
you are not
evil.

If you have
ever seen the
unkindness and
selfishness rooted
in your heart
and been worried,
you are not
hopeless.

Jesus came
and separated
our oil sins to
make our souls
pure so the
Holy Spirit
would not
choke in us.

    IV
He lightens
our darkness
and saves us
from Satan's
hands that
crawl up out of
our hearts to
choke us with
lust, greed, and
other wants that
sting our throats
and make us
drink the black
liquor again
because it looks
so good.

He make us
beautiful
again.

He makes you
beautiful again.

    V**
We are polaroids
thrown in acid
that our own
minds created
and stewed
willfully--

But God,
He rips us out
of our own
destruction and
restores us to
the 3D master-
pieces we are
designed to
be.

All because
He loves,
All because
He loves us.

Amen.

If I ever commit
suicide, it will be to
the sound of Swan Lake’s
finale, but all the rest of
the audience around me will
only have heard the pas de trois
and so will be confused
why the dancing swan
suddenly shot itself.

To the people
who will reject
me—I am not
mad. I understand
that there are
writers better than
me—that is ok.

I think I am
trying to teach
myself to learn
that rejection does
not imply a lack
of something—it’s
more about taste.

Perhaps you liked
the way the poem
before mine played
with lines like a
sticks—stacking them
higher and higher
to become one
great fire work.

Or maybe hers,
the girl you read
after me, reminded
you exactly of the
time in summer where
you would sit outside
and popsicles flew
down the slide of
your chin—you were
so innocent and smiley
then.

And me—
here I am, trying
to have a dialogue
with you when I
should be working
to reveal some mystery
of the universe! I
beg your pardon, Sir
or Miss.

This is only
the prologue—the
dumb show before
I run behind the
curtains, but not
to be the Wizard of
Oz—no booming sound
or great green lights
will shoot from my
mouth.

But, oh—here’s
my cue and I
am already in front
of you. (I wasn’t
ready for that, were
you?)

There’s a bit of
lint on my black
shirt, and gosh
these heels make
me six foot! Yet
here’s your face, and
you are sitting before
me like my unborn
children waiting
for a story.

In this moment
I will live for
you—see my cry
and think—but as
soon as this poem
is over, I will die,
and wait to be
resurrected until
the next poem.

The stanzas of the
mountains—I cannot
read them they are
too smart for me, too
high.

The grass is green and
The sky is blue, but I
still live in the wreck
of what once was—in
bones and pastures.

The wind doesn’t
whisper my name, it
never has—why should
it bow to me when in one
burst it can knock me over?

You fell because of
me, were ruined because
of me and still I beat
you like the abusive
overseer.

You are not
animate like me, you
do not stare at your
rhyme and palm
trees—trying to
comprehend the why
buried under the
incorporeal X.

I am sorry, but
we will be born
again and then—
like two lovers that
never quarreled—we
can look at Him
and say, “How great
He is!”

I am going
to disappear--
stay awake
until 6 am
when everyone
begins.

They will
look for me
under the
covers, but I
will not be
there.

I will evaporate
into the secret
air of all the
people who
cannot sleep
at night--we
fly into darkness,
because it does
not hurt our
eyes and all
our dreams
cannot die while
they are still
unhatched eggs.

We do not
have to love
anyone, except
from a
distance--they
are perfect there,
held in time
as all the good
things and good
smiles we remember
them as.

No one has
to love us.

We try to
find you in
our own
way--see
you in the
demands we
make and
the sin
of our hearts--
aspiring Greek
gods.

But, you
are not there
and so we
cannot crown
ourselves
because we
do not look
like you.

So we
throw down
the throne
and make a
new one out
of sores and
gold, but
we find our-
selves allergic
to it.

You dwell in
sorrow, and so
I cannot understand
You, because
I want to
live in mansions
and laugh,
laugh because
I am free from
trying.

But You died
and You bled—
what are my
frustrations
in comparison
to yours on
that day?

How can
I know four-
pointed shame—
when did any
of my failures
turn into glory?

I cannot
see how my
sad face can
make my
heart glad,
but I do
know that in
sadness I
have chosen
my unhappiness
over ignorance.

Yet, it is
good to
know that
my life is
not supposed
to be a
mansion filled
with laughter, for
that is my death.

Could you
take me to
the dark
sadness—to
its eaves and
heavy cloaks.

What is it
here, there
that I do not
see, that I
don’t under-
stand.

You made
a perfect
man divined
to fall, and
it is beautiful
and sad.

Do I
know sorrow
enough to
know You?

I can still
see the tinge
of grey in
the blue sky
above my head.

Such is the
nature of
this temporal
beauty--lovely,
but incomplete.

The sun still
shines on us
from so far
away, and the
leaves--it
pleases them
to be green--and
I, am I good
or beautiful?

I do not
know, but
I suppose
so.

God is kind
to make it
so I (or you)
cannot walk
in paradise, but
only imagine it.

How much
darker the
grey would
seem to us
then.

Love, I don’t
know what to do
with you—we sit
at a table, me and
you, and I examine
your face and hands
like a child who I
once knew, but then
grew up.

I’m trying to
decide whether
I want to rent
out one of my
brain-rooms
to you, just in
case I’ll need
you to entertain
the love of
someone else.

I mean, you’re
under my roof every
day—whether I
like it or not—so
why shouldn’t I
house you in my
thoughts long-term?

But love, it
bothers me how
you always want
me to pay attention
to you like some
god, but you’re
not—I worship
you unwillingly
and habitually.

When did I let
myself become
so attached to
the way you
smile and wink
at me? I should
have walked out
of that bar, and
gone home and
prayed—but I
choose to flirt
with the dreams
you made for me.

Love, I don’t
hate you, but
I wish you
would stop
acting like you
can fix my
loneliness, when
we both know
all the kisses in
the world can’t
replace my God.

I’m sending
you on a vacation,
and when you’re
ready to be patient
and holy, then
come back.

Instead, kneel
behind me at
the altar of Christ
and make yourself
His servant—be His
bride, and you will
be requited by the
one who made you.