New born babies don't have fully developed lungs

When I was thirteen my mother told me
The story of my birth,
December 29th 1995

She brought me home, but something wasn't
Right, because I was blue and didn't
Move
She took me to the children's hospital
Where I stayed for two weeks, but
This poem isn't about me,

Because there was a lot of other blue babies too
All with the same underdeveloped lungs
And still bodies,
There was one baby
Who was in the room next to mine,
Just beyond the thin hospital curtain

Every night her mother would sit next to
Her, her with tubes up and down her veins
Laying in that little plastic box
Meant to keep the blue babies alive

This women would sing Amazing Grace
To her newborn, and according to my mother
She had a beautiful voice

She was praying nothing would happen
To her blue baby, and so was
My mother, but for me

One night the women's voice wasn't singing
Anymore, the lullaby was over and she
Was screaming
Because I'm the one writing this poem
And her singing couldn't make her baby
Any less blue

That baby's little plastic box couldn't do its job,
So now the mother is feeling the same way

And the screaming was
Heart wrenching, something I never want to
Feel,
A scream my mother never wanted
To hear

Today I went into the ocean
And my lips turned blue, along with my hands and legs
I couldn't help myself from thinking
Of that blue baby and Amazing Grace

Sometimes I wish I was the
Blue baby, and that the Amazing-Grace-Mother's
Words could have meant something
More
Than the stillness of a baby with
Underdeveloped lungs

Arizona sunrise a leaf below his feet,
February tug of war led the rope to feather.
Stuck between pyramids and a desert flat
above sewers of east Brooklyn,
bridges emptied dust to flame.
He covered rice paper with delicate yellow birds,
and tore his clothes to shreds.
Swapped sleep for a girl in faded overalls,
but no flowers from his garden
high amongst the clouds
could match her feathered beauty
so he bought a peppered owl.
The great salt lake shriveled her skin,
the birds heavy flesh hit the ground,
leaving a mark deeper
then the **** on her shoulder.
Still, she stuck to him like syrup
but sweet faded to sun.
Trapped inside a number maze
with dyslexia in reverse,
only shivers of winter to remind
he is as alive as the moons cheekbone
hanging
haunting the sky.
He cried twice that year.
Once when the bees carried feet from honey,
and again when he lost his eyes to the sea.
He wrote love letters to the albino fifth graders older sister
and never once
thought twice.
The sky, a compass
swinging
swaying,
a weeping willow in his veins sobbed until every ounce of blood was salt.
Sinking as fast as his heart
last February
to the crust of the sea.
Perfect shape took form,
he never wondered why.
Open eyes uncovered
folded faded overalls beside a door unopened.
Smile like silk
pulled him into her lips,
swallowed him whole.
Forever he will wade
and wait
in the beehive of her belly.

moonlight paints streaks
  on adolescent bodies
ocean-clad and gleaming
with their alabaster finish
impeccable
impenetrable
lay our confidences
coiled softly within our own hands
for us only
peeking every now and then
just to make sure its staying put
and like a flashlight in the sky
we are all revealed
under a light thats harsh, but forgiving
yet stranger things have
and stranger things will
come of this new moon

When I was ten I would go to work with my mom
She worked at a preschool in a not-so-great town
There was one girl who was my favorite
Her name was Trinitaria.

During nap time she asked me to lay with her, so I did
And I remember she said things to me
That I didn't quite understand

A few days ago I took a child abuse prevention course
Because I'm working at a camp this summer
I went home and asked my mom
About Trinitaria, what happened to her

She looked surprised and worried
She told me her adopted father sexually abused her
It was an ongoing case that I was too young to understand

This course I took taught me the signs of abused children trying to open up
And I suddenly realized I could have helped my friend Trinny

But while her innocence was being stolen, mine was busy shielding my eyes and hiding a reality
She couldn't escape from

You know, I would like to call this a poem
But really all it feels like is bleeding.
Like the flood that pumped through me is,
Wasted.
And trust me,
That hurts.
When I think of all,
I can't help but cringe.
Because somewhere in the between I lost the pieces of my puzzle,
That I was really looking for.
And that the love that I etched so carefully
Into the lines of your face
Ticked backwards, like a forgotten clock,
At his mention.
For you, I connected constellations in your freckles,
As though there was some kind of system of finding my
Way in this labyrinth that I know so well.
I found oceans of depth in those eyes,
That promised me salvation in happiness
That promised love in loss.
Although I have learned,
That when you explore too deep
It is easy to become lost.
The bleeding isn't a pattern,
There is no rhyme to this reason,
Only treason and tragedy.
So excuse the torrent,
Because I've already drowned in the flood.
Remember when flowers grew in the garden?

The law said her body was made for love
The kind of love that wants to show you
just how much it loves you
by sticking things inside of you

hard
fast

Then slower

The kind of love that wanted to make the bible blush
make you quiver; the
kind of love when you put a female and male hamster together.
The kind of love that wanted to make music out of your ******

Love said "This is what happens
when you use
Needles to ingrain the words love
on peoples skin"

It feels a lot like pain did

Like when the first boy you ever loved
said I love you back
And proved it because he held you after
sticking sticky things inside of you
Like how he said hed wait untill you were ready
then said "You're gonna make me wait forever.."

How that guy on the third date said
"Come back to my apartament
So I can put what I want into you
Until you are empty
Because we might call it love"

Until you met a boy
who untaught what the word love meant
never asked you when you wanted to have ***
whose hands never roamed as greedily
searching for places to settle on your body
who didnt wish to make a home out of you by filling you senseless
and calling it his furniture
art
who traced outlines of constellations on the palms of your hands
and played
"Guess the Nebula"

Whose hardness never prodded you in the back
like a protest
in the early morning
whose breath always came easy
never hard
or fast

It was just holding you with no intention to
*******

He said
"Love isnt what you put inside a person
In hopes of making it stick;and naming it after something beautiful
I can pin my thoughts on you but
you are not my canvas. That wouldnt be fair.
I respect your property."

There was nothing broken when he left.

I don't sail,
It's not that I don't know how,
or that I don't want to.
I just don't.

I've been out,
quite a few times actually,
and I liked it.
I even make money repairing boats,
but for some reason,
it just doesn't draw me
like it does others.

It could be a product of my character,
I may leave it be because it lacks structure
but it exudes finesse.
And I'm the bull in the china shop
who then feels the need to clean up his mess.

Am I missing out on something?
It seems like everyone around me lives for it,
they were born into it though.
I grew up in the woods,
in the peaceful ambiance
and the warm tents bathed in sunlight.

I can take a pack,
a water bottle,
a camera
and return to my childhood.

The trees were my water,
and the chickadees and woodpeckers my fish.
The sun is the same,
bathing the trees and the sea.

That,
that is me.
I do not live in the ocean or on the sea,
I tread among the emerald trees.

Red is your color, never blue or gold.
My finish is never met with hollers or cheers, simply silence.
And not of the reverent sort, the sort of clammy, piteous, and overbearing silence.
Not the quiet that is shared in the company of friends or lovers. Never that.
My place on the podium will only raise me a foot or two.
From where I am standing the stars seems so **** far.
My "Participant" ribbon lies crumpled in-between my fingers.
And the ever present "I'm so sorry, good try" is meted out with each conciliatory apology.
But this isn't the first time, and I know it won't be the last.
That'll I will take second place in this race.
But really, how could I ever really want to win,
When I can barely get people to acknowledge me.
It would be a miracle if they started to cheer.
Did I mention I don't believe in miracles?

Everyone grows up learning to lie.
They fill in the spaces where we can't find the words.
They substitute for the stories we never made.
They shield those we love from all the hurt in the world.
So I guess I don't feel too bad about living a few lies.
Despite the wounds they left never really healing over.
I could blame him and her for them, but what is the point.
They happened, there they are on my skin, for all to see.
No use in tears, those won't change anything.
But the best I can do is grit my teeth and bear it.
The time for strength will be for later.
And I wouldn't look back if I was stronger,
But then again Orpheus was just a man too.
So call me a pillar of salt, or a push over.
But I lost, and it hurts.
I finished last again, and I think that adage might have more truth to it than I thought.