My grandmother is old.

This was not always the case. When I was small, she would pack up my things for me and take me to Canada, to Georgia and to the beach. She only ever smacked my hand one time and she never yelled at me. And in the morning, she made me breakfast just how I liked it.

Now she can’t lift a saucepan without trouble.

I find myself wondering strange things about her now: How does she fold her fitted sheets so perfectly?  What does she do to make her sweet potatoes so large?  How did she get so many blooms on her rosebush? Why do her eggs taste so much better than mine?

I don’t ask her these questions. It feels wrong to.

Instead, when I wake in the morning, I will walk to her room across the hall and stoop low enough to hug her with my head resting on her shoulder. Her skin will smell like Lever soap and some jasmine based perfume. I will ask her if she would make the eggs since her’s taste so much better than mine.

She’ll ask if I want her to show me how to make them.

I will say no.

It is too easy.
Much, much too easy
This falling and rising we do.

It leaves me hollowed.
Empty, like an autopsied heart, chambers no longer pumping life’s blood;
Or like the distended belly of some pathetic half creature fevered with hunger.

Don’t you ever feel that way?

Or do you glutton yourself on the rolling and rocking,
Feasting on the tides until you are consumed by vomitous pleasure?

This falling and rising.
This rising and falling.

This and this and this.

I am so tired of it all.
No more bile drenched lust or hearts seized by rigor.

It is simply a strange and listless pantomime of a thing now
And much too easy
To hold any worth.

Sometimes,
When I am troubled and alone;
I make my way into the kitchen
barefoot and naked
And pull out a steak from the freezer.

I boil a *** of tea while it thaws.
When it has,
I sip my too hot tea- spiced with cinnamon and vanilla,
And season the meat.

With pepper
and garlic
and salt
And then cook it in butter
To barely passed raw.

I place it on a plate of fine china
And set it on my dining room table
With no knife or fork
And sit in front of it.

Picking up the hot, soft meat in my hands
I tear into it.
Gasping against the heat,
Groaning at the taste,
Letting the brick dust colored blood
Spill down my chin-
Speckle my breast.

Sated and wet with beef blood,
I shower, braid and curl my hair, put on make-up and jewelry
And wear something soft and alluring.

I feel wild.
And the taste of vanilla and blood
Mingles on the back of my tongue.

Vanessa was here-
Lying in your clothes,
Trying to catch your scent
And remember the taste of you
On the back of her tongue.

When the memories of your half bloomed love
Shake me from the ribcage out,
I comfort myself with the thought
That there was never really an us at all.
(It must have just been my own narcissism-
What a greedy ***** I was, asking you to love me)
But when this conclusion is less than palatable
And fails to satisfy my heart-hungry belly –
As it always does, it always fails-
I leave the soft haven of my own bed sheets
And venture out onto cold concrete and asphalt.
….

There I become small and carnivorous
Like some half starved rodent or gorging reptile.
I salivate at the scent of even common affection.
….

My heart,
Ravenous and infinitesimal,
Will find another to take your place.
And these others- this golems of a men, these interlopers in our warped affections-
Are easily devoured through hands and mouth and ****.
….

The walls of the hollow space where an ‘us’ was purported to dwell
Churn and roil uncomfortably with pangs.

I am a lot of things
And chief amongst none is a liar.

Except when I am.

Its not on purpose.
Its only when I need to coat my tongue with a little sugar
to make it sweeter; smoother.
So its all not so bitter.

Only when I believe it
When its close enough to the truth
To be considered genuine
If I believe it hard enough.

Lying is a sin.
Except when its not.

When you need a small half truth
So you’re easier to love,
Or prettier,
Or little more righteous,
Or better.

Just when it makes things softer.
When it sands down too sharp memories
And keeps things from hurting so much;
Too much.

It is only then I lie.
Except-.

Her hair was the color of cattails in Autumn.
She smiled widely,
Spoke too quickly,
And her hands fluttered about her face.

She said to me:

“So here I am,
Waiting for God to come,
But He’s too busy buying a pack of camels at the corner store.

“He looks at me like he hates me
But he doesn’t know me enough,
Not to hate me anyway.

“See my arms?
Here they are, fragile and dusty as butterfly wings.
Not as pretty though, never as pretty as a Monarch’s.

“See me?
Glittering, covered in diamonds?
But I laugh like broken glass bells.
You can hear the cracks in it, listen:

”Crick! Crick!

“Nobody’s perfect is what I say
But They had it first
So I guess I’m a liar.

“Whats the point of truth anyway?
Reality is the biggest lie,
Not like we’d die without it.

“Not that living’s all that great,
Especially when gods are at the corner,
Too busy exhaling this menthol universe

“Watch out for the flies they keep swatting away
Couldn’t have answered all the prayers.
Sad thing for the flies.

“And I’ll never have a Monarch’s wings
Or be covered in anything other than reflective glass
Its hard to get it all straight,
And remember what’s real.”

You're just not enough anymore.

I want to pretend it isn't so, but this skin is too worn to stretch over false smiles and empty eyes.

And I know, I'll miss your penny colored skin that tasted like love-

                And kisses that tasted like lies

                And hand prints that bruised into my thighs

When you ****** me like you cared

                When you hurt me a little, like your wont to do.

                When you traced your name on the small of my back like a tattoo



Fairytales, sweet and juicy as mangoes, aren't enough for me anymore.



Give your sweet syrup to someone who can stomach it better than I.

Let them take all your sound bytes and smiles in to their mouths,

Red tongues warm and wet and alive,

Caressing each vowel and curve of lip,

Until they choke on them.

Let the sugar rot their teeth and burn their throats.

Such candies aren't for me anymore.



And I still crave you,

Still wish for hands splayed across my belly

Holding me like I'm something precious.

I still dream of pulled hair and soft lips

Still want false words of love and promise

Too much like the ****** who won't eat or sleep.



But I can't believe anymore.

I've grown too much to ignore the signs

Faith is a luxury of children and fools and I am neither.

So keep your lies and mangoes and sound bytes;

I've had enough.

To my surprise
Placing feet on foreign soils
Does not root me as surely as I thought it would.

Digging my toes into the dirt
Feels like any other sediment
And there is endless disappointment in this.

There are no vines or roots
Breaking through pavement, earth, and cracked cement to greet me.
It does not embrace me.
And I am not its child.

When the Earth was new,
And darkness was still twinned with the deeps,
I knew you.

Time passed,
And so many years later,
We met in the flesh.
And I felt the same newness, the same dark waters-
I knew you were mine.

I knew, like the ever returning tide;
And the phases of the moon;
And the presence of all my guiding stars.
It is with such fierce certainty,
I knew you loved me.

At night,
I would hold your face between my hands,
And kiss you on the lips gently, smiling.
You would press your nose between my collar bone and the brown column neck.

I was always thankful
For your choice to press back against me.
Even then,
I knew like water
My hands could never really hold you.

I packed up my childhood
In a heavy wooden trunk
And hid it where no one could find it.

I thought that I could save it,
Take it out later,
And wear it again like my favorite coat.

But When they were taking me in the police car,
Packed in so tightly against the others-
Like sardines or slaves on a ship-
I lost my key as they dragged me from my mother’s home.

I am older now
And I still cannot find it.
And the trunk is too heavy to break.

I think of my childhood,
Alone in the stifling dark,
I hear it scuttling about sometimes.
And I want to cry.

Missing you feels like
A hole- emptiness inside.
Only heavier.

I left a kiss for you on your pillow in the morning.
You weren't there
And so I decided to give you this,
Just this,
Small piece of my affection.

When you lay your head for sleep tonight,
Know that I am there,
My lips pressed against your cheek.

His face pressed against hers,
Tips of noses and foreheads,
And his palm large and smooth against her cheek.

Closed eyes and secret smiles.
Like she had always known
The taste of skin that surrounds a metallic stud.
Like he knew the wet trail left behind a tongue
Was best on the underside of a breast.  

Smoke pouring out from lungs
Curling and twisting about lips
That were wet and heavy
Like dark orchid petals
Drooping in summer’s humid heat.

Luscious
You said when you saw them.
And the word sat on my tongue
Rich and sweet
Pressing against the roof of my mouth.

His fingers traced lines down her scalp,
Brushing hair back from eyelids and upturned lips.
He moved down to kiss a taut calf muscle.

Luscious, I said.  *I like that.

Hard to love you these days.
Hard to swallow ‘round the jagged edges of rejection, lead heavy and burning in throat and belly.
Hard to give and give into the hollow spaces of you where only simple affection lives.
Harder still, to not give at all.

Today,
I found that sweater you let me borrow.
It still smelled like you.
And breathing in the stale remnants of your cologne and sweet sweat,
All I could remember was the taste of the shell of your ear, and the way your letters slanted in your notebook, and how you loved rooibos and pancakes.

I still wish you were here sometimes.  

But,
I didn't love you enough,
And you wouldn't tell me what was wrong.
So I guess it was inevitable.

Someday,
I hope you find some fabric memento from me.
If you do, please find some peace in my faded scent.
Let every breath remind you:

*I loved you I loved you I loved you

I don’t know you
Its hard to
With a body -
Our only connection
-standing between us.

I think I like you.

You remind me of laughter,
The deep kind-
With belly rumblings like thunder
And lightening flashes of teeth-
Like storms over rough waters.

I am caught off guard when I think of you.

Sometimes,
The taste of sea salt
Or a certain shade of blue
Will call your memory forth.
The suddenness of it
Rocking me like a violent tide.

I don’t know you,
But I find myself content
With the surface and sandy shores of you.

I think that’s okay.

I remember when I slipped in,
Like a hazy shadow in the evening’s glow
Of a darkened hall and your bedroom’s light.

You looked of some unearthly perfection to me.

Like some lounging pagan god
On a throne of down pillows
And cotton blue blankets.

And how your eyes looked at me that night!

It was as if you saw something other than
The flawed coffee colored flesh
And awkward hanging of nervous limbs.

Like I was beautiful.

And I remember I could feel it.
Everywhere your eyes rested,
I could feel heat and something pushing beneath my skin-
My body transforming into the splendor you believed me to possess.

And when your eyes traveled to my face-
(Up, past my dipping navel
Through a valley of soft, heavy *******,
Meandering in the hollow of my collar bone until
Rushing up the column of my neck)
- All I could see in you was love;
Heavy and warm and sweet,
Like humid summer air after a rainstorm.

I remember that suddenly,
I wanted nothing but to be naked before you.

I wanted to strip myself bare,
Show you all the hidden parts of me.
Let your eyes rove over the ugly blood and meat of me,
And watch your face as you discovered some piece of beauty visible only to you.

I have never wanted to be loved as much as I did in that moment.

And so,
When you looked at me that night,
And mouthed your prayers and devotion across my shoulder blades,
I gave myself up to you wholly.

And I marveled at the way I ripened to your touch;
I felt myself swell almost to bursting,
And my kisses were slow and heavy and sweet.

Love,
That night I took off my skin for you,
Thick and tough as orange peels.

Did the layer underneath, taste of citrus to you?

There are things,
Dark and secret things,
That hide in people.

Carving up the bone
And nestling in the marrow.
Sinking sharp claws in kidneys.

But you-
You darling of beauty, you diaphanous prism of light,
You cracked star shining-

You exist and therefore there is brilliance in the world.

You are a city of light
Set up on a hill for all to see.
All who come to you, are touched by your brightness.

You are a candescent and fiery thing.
Like the sun and lightning
There can be no shadows or true darkness near you.

And so,
Those who are empty-
Filled only with insubstantial night and shades,
With chiseled bones and a gloom that carries claws-
Recoil and lash out against you.

But you are bright, shining and marvelous.
Like the sun and lightning
You will again rise, and you will strike once more.

You are fire and a prism and a fortress of light.
You are glowing and brilliant and effulgent.
You are so very, very beautiful.
You are all things good.

Lady,
‘Fierce’ does not begin to plumb the depths of who your are.
Shine on.

My mouth waters at the thought of you.
Like some ***** in heat,
I am common and lewd.
I long to taste the shell of your ear
And bruise you in your most intimate places.

Sometimes I am more than convinced
The only thing keeping me tethered to the wet, dark, autumn dirt
Are the whorls and swirls on the pads of my toes.
Circuitous and tangled, curling up and in one another,
These are the only lines holding me firm to my world of moleskin notebooks, keyboards, plums and tea cups.

It seems such a tenuous connection.

Perhaps,
I will wake one morning to find myself subject to the laws of physics once more,
And feel the reassuring press of gravity on my shoulders,  
Secure in the knowledge that I will not loose my self to the cold, black, unknown-ness of space.    

Until then, I am here-
Proverbially barefoot, toes digging into the cold and sleeping soil,
Trying to get a grip.

Today,
I promise,
I will finally write.

I'll write about the first time I tasted plums,
(Cool and wet and biting)

Or the soft euphoria of house parties and hookah smoke,
(Like cashmere and night in the blood- already heavy with *** and promise- while grinding out hallelujahs to bass and rhythm and cheap liquor)

Or the feeling of my father’s calloused palms when he took my tiny hands in his, my feet atop his own, and sang to me- riotously off key- the chorus of ‘My Girl’ in a tiny kitchen in Camden; Me laughing, hyena howling, and shouting ‘AGAIN! AGAIN!’ echoing until dizzied by the happy noise.

Today,
I promise,
I'll get it out.

I'll take pen to page, and tell you why I sometimes feel oddly bereft at the sight of a trail of some long departed snail or slug, iridescent in moonlight.

Or try to explain why the scent of lilacs remind me of my mother, that the taste of honeysuckle blooms and the feel of summer warm dirt in my hands makes me feel closer to her, and sometimes a taste of **** cherry pie will ease the gnawing ache of nostalgia and wanting of her more than any simple phone call ever could.

Or tell you how I feel scared and angry so much of the time, (Poor thing that I am- all brown skinned, fat and too loud- in the thin white crushing silence that hangs like a humid fog in streets and office buildings.)  How I feel so hunted in a world of poachers determined to use my teeth for piano keys, pluck my plumes for gaudy decoration, and consume me, a nameless  milk soaked calf, only to complain that all the bleeding I’m doing has soaked the plate and my tears have over salted the meat.

Today,
I promise,
I’ll make it plain.

I’ll be inspired by verses written on the thin onion skinned pages of a Bible my grandmother gave me,
find beauty in crushed glass sprinkled over cracked asphalt and potholes, and taste love – young and sweet – when biting into the soft, ripe flesh of a mango.

I’ll tell all my secrets to you, re-name you lover and villain, and share my most intimate spaces; crack open my rib cage and let you nestle in the pumping chambers of my heart, sustain you with the air of my lungs and food from my own soft belly; invite you with open arms and closed eyes inside of myself to read all the words I’ve scrawled in miles of veins and on sturdy spine.  


I promise,
It will be today.
And yes,

The dishes must be scrubbed, my winter coat needs a new button, and the cat must be fed.
These things will happen, like all things of daily realities: new socks and defrosting chicken and late student loan payments.    

But,

Today
I am searching for divinity in between the pages of moleskin note books and falling in love that tastes like honey and lavender and sweet raisin challah bread.
I am mapping out dance steps in hookah smoke and tiny kitchens.
I am lifting **** cherries and warm summer dirt in shaking palms as a ward against poachers searching for all the ivory and meat in me.
I am tracing holy verses across my grandmothers soft, thin skin; the scent of mangoes about the words; keeping her safe in soft spaces of my marrow.

Today,
I promise,
I will write.

I am not a martyr.
I am not so pious as to suffer the slashing of a knife-edged tongue.
For what cause?

What peace could my silence bring me?

My tongue is metal too.
Perhaps not as sharp as yours,
My words still have the soft scent of gold about them,
But it is metal too.
And I am not a martyr.

I remember when you coddled my name on your tongue.
It was safe there against the slick muscle and gentle press of taste buds.
Why is simple sentiment and unblemished truth to complex for you now?

I don’t want to play these games of ****** and parry with you anymore.
I am cut, you are bleeding, and we are both weary
From the constant cleaving of delicate flesh.

It is a bitter taste that blooms as steel is folded into my tongue
By life and time and all the things we never talk about.
My mouth is tinged with metal and my breath is wet with blood.


This, my love, is a battle for fools to partake in.
My tongue is not yet a blade, too dull for cutting.
All I want to be is soft flesh and slick muscle.
I am not holy enough to stomach the taste of blood on the back of my teeth.

I am not a martyr and neither are you.
So I’ll go.

Isn’t it strange,
That when you smile
You let your bones show.

Love, be sweet.
Curve your lips for me-
I crave the intimacy.

The chemo makes you tired at first,
So you tend to sleep the day of treatment.

But throughout the week,
The radiation takes its toll.
I watch it slowly unfurl inside of you.

Your joints ache like there are embers between the bones,
And your belly fills with hot, heavy lead,
And your tonsils swell with fluid,
And your *******, traitorous with tumors, are sore and bruised.

This is a pain that eats at you:
Your nerves, your patience, your kind words.

You’re a *****. Vicious and unrepentant. It hurts.

I become petty and spiteful,
Convinced you are determined to make me suffer with you.

You tell me that I don’t care about you anymore.
And I ask you why you can’t appreciate the things I do for you more.

But today,
You showed me how your hair had lost most of its ***** curls,
The follicles soft and preparing for departure,
And you cried because your wig, while pretty, didn’t look like you.

I can only hold your swollen hand
And promise to draw your eyebrows for you.

Just because I love you
Doesn't mean I wont hold you close
And sink my teeth into the tender meat of you.

I will always need another metal/mango/lilac/smoke taste of your secret heart.  

Don't worry my lovely little babe-
I am a greedy monster
And I will gobble you quickly.

At the dawn,
The sun sheds her cloak of moon, cloud and starry black skies
And stands naked, bright and shining,
Filled with yellows, and orange, and brilliance.  
And all I can do is wish to be as lovely as she.

Such radiance! Like the Phoenix rising;
Arms turned into wings the color of glowing embers
Stretched as wide and far as the rays of the sun herself,
Bursting with passion and gold and blazing,
Too small and too wonderful to contain it all.

But we don’t believe in blinding flames anymore.
How can we dream of such light?
Wings clipped, the color of ash, bound to earth
Through chains whose links are made of things too solid to break,
Things like gravity and pasts that hurt us to remember.

Women much like any other woman;
Like my mother, my friends, myself;
Women whose light has been diminished,
Who wear cloaks of bruises and broken promises now.
Filled with fear and rage and destruction.

Sweet sisters,
Trapped in cages not of their own making.
Bodies banging and thrashing against bars
Spasming in pain and silence
Too shamed and confused to sing

No melodies are heard here,
But look how pretty the silent bird is.
Muffled by gilded cages
Constructed from hardest of materials
Things we were made to believe.

This is the darkest of places
Closed curtains block out the sun.
No moon or stars to wrap us in fitful slumber.
There is no dreaming in this gloom.

“Sing for us!” they say, “croon for us something sweet,
“Let your voice choke past your rage and sorrow
“Flit amongst golden bars, sing and dance,
“Become our vision; ****, slave and nurturer
“For the cage is large and the sun cannot reach you here
“Let our praise warm you and our approval be your stars
“We will keep you safe.”

But birds such as we;
Like my mother, my friends, myself
We were not made for cages, gilded as they may be.
Our wings and hearts and love cannot be contained
Even by things of the most hurtful construction.

Lift up your wings and soar once again.
Rising like the Phoenix
Filled with rage and destruction and new promise,
From tombs of ash and tears to take flight.
Breaking through golden bars created by those who envied our passion.
We fly like no others.


At dawn
The sun and I will rise again
Shedding the pasts and hurts of yesterday
Like cloaks of moon and cloud and stars .
For I am simply me: a phoenix, daughter of the sun, naked, bright and shining
Join us.