My head aches like torrential, relentless rain,
pounding on the rooftops and sending birds
flying away, far away, a little earlier than
what I learned in 2nd grade when I drew three birds
on momma bird's back: I was creative then,
but I can't create a sound now--

the sound of graceful acceptance of a belly,
still a belly, that feels like a graveyard
when I touch defiant black hairs standing straight
against smooth fawny skin; I feel the hollowness within.
Ali Baba would find refuge here, but thieves stole my treasure.

Those in white coats and button downs and sharp shiny square shoes
stroll past my disheveled gym hair, lint covered yoga pants,
uneven pale fingernails: I'm a recovering anemic.
A small frightened girl with cat moon eyes stares around her
and clutches her hand closer to her abdomen for an embrace,
an act of second nature, not forgotten yet.

Remember when they took the spoon and scooped out ice cream,
hungrily, viciously, mouthful overtaking mouthful
until nothingness remained:
an insatiable appetite for something sweet.

Somewhere in some corner a spider releases eggs and dies.

Love
As it stands:
Over our heads
Enraptures the frail heart
With incipient dread.
What is to be
In a world without thee,
But a standalone,
A reflection,
Of what was and will be?
One cannot love,
As that adage goes.
Unless, first, inner peace
Quells ignorant woes
As any person happy alone
Can tell you and knows.
But the pangs of hypocrisy
From the word itself
--Excuse my incredulity—
Love springs alive
Only when L stands with O-V-E.
What’s more, Love’s a test
Aesthetic selfishness
A prolonged adventure
To feel good in this skin.
Even when we feel
Love
We do not tolerate
Thoughts of two.
See, only one “I”
In “I love you,”
I’m at the center
Of “you’re my love,”
And “you make me feel…”
The fact one could lie to the love of their life
Makes me reel.
So a multithought-gasp-is love!
And rife with paradox
Inconsistent and vitalized.
How can I be so cynical
To break apart rosy airs
And leave only a shocking nothing?
Dear friend, there’s something in
Love
Let’s break it down into its funny little parts
L’s for libido
O ******
V is for vice and
E ******.
A nice little formula
For the fawny neurotic
Take it with you and shout and play
Let it be a comfort
On St. Valentine’s Day.

a calm curiosity led me to you.
you were exotic to me.
a pair of piercing blue eyes,
fawny freckles on high cheekbones,
a devilish smirk that screamed danger.
i should've listened when they said
curiosity killed the cat.

I cant help but get too involved with someone who catches my attention,
who I think deserves my affection.
I am prone to get too deep with someone who has
a mindset thats over the top,
that is too curious for its own good.
I cant help myself when I see a soul touched by something,
something thats so beautiful thats its hard not to see it,
not to want to experience it with them.

You might think im crazy but in reality,
thats how I express myself,
with too much affection,
too much love at once because
I have yet been able to experience that myself.
I have not yet experienced someone who can love
the way I love, the way I care.
I hate the ways of the heart,
the things I put myself through every single time,
every time I open myself up for the possibilities
of someone loving me like I love them.

And as I throw that over-used word around,
I look back and wonder why.
I wonder why and even I still havent figured out
the answer to that fawny question.
I hate the love I give,
the love that ive never received,
the love that haunts my heart.

I wonder what the future holds for a lost lover like me,
or like her, or him, or you….
the way I love isnt rare.
oh, its known for many,
the way we love is just...

We used to have a passionfruit tree growing in our garden.
From ours or the neighbours?
The weather never got hot enough here.
They’d shrivel up fawny dappled globes, dry.
The fence would buckle under the weight of effort.

Look at me with your many eyes, with your many eyes:
Five rays dyed purple
Died waving a white flag
In the coughing August breeze
Died wide-eyed. Turn them to me.

Purple. Sharp. Feelers, whiskers, spikes.
Begging and pleading and clinging and not.

Take me back to bleeding your seeds in your free moments
Opening up, arms in arms.
On your childhood bedroom floor.
You won’t look at me the next morning.

You tell me your insides are like mucus
I can only taste the sweet
I can only taste the sweet I
Can only taste the sweet I can only
Tastethesweeticanonlytastethesweet.
Many eyes.

Change me.
It was something you said in your last hours
And I can’t quite recall.

We are cutting down the tree tomorrow.
What if you had managed it?
What if the summer was warm?

Dry eyed poetry


The night I died I wake up early — 5am — and wipe my withered eyes of sleep —

I peep out the at the dewy green lawn now beaded with moisture —and feel like rolling in the lush flourishing foliate freshly

The morning rain creates crusts of hoarfrost as the sun rays sprays its gay day light bright — into the hot rooftop — top

Leaning over my window sill I smile at the crow barking at the piece of crust I hold tightly —
Windows here are non drafted — non sealed — cracking — leaking — creaking and

I see next door’s open back gate

A deer frolics its way across the parkland and into the forest badlands

Recently I saw a cockroach appear — jumping past quickly as if he knew I was enemy number one

I didn’t try to get it — rather let it go along the way — across the bench and up and into the cupboard — not wanting to assess the mess it might leave after being in there

Bush ‘Dread Zed’ said he would be in the brushwood after ten only he didn’t make it again
Decorated and funny he lacks punctuality and reliability — erasing points off of my mindful mentality tokenistic consciousness

He left a gas map — mishap — catnap — fat-snack for the girl with the large rap — *** — sat —in her lap — Cat — a friend of mine who I occasionally sleep with

Gyani and Tao exercises for the limber and supple take out the late afternoon not quite as rough as past classes

Little do I have left of my Iyengar yoga instruction I did for over ten yearsor over ten years

Agile as a jaunty kid of eight I stretched — up — doing the crab — better than everyone else in the class — down into a headstand holding for over fifteen minutes then pitch a perfect posture poised in plain sight for everyone to see

The instructor liked to push us

But that was a while ago and existing (time) takes on a different meaning as you grow older

It appears as an extra second of life that you must have had but can barely imagine nor remember doing or living

Or driving in — or dancing with— or gallivanting over — or jumping out of the box— or stuck inside the head— or in a blank space —
Maybe just around the corner and back —
Clued to be fed up with exhaustion and desire to change — sometime — when?

Tommy draws a picture of tomorrow evening at dusk— wild eyed and smart I like him a ton —
I feel his head slump on my shoulder and tears flow from his pretty face — ***** dawny fawny drawny — until morn — down his cheek — like salty sea anemone

Hanging for a hit
Gear is easy to come by here
Otherwise you would go
mad

Insane language is spoken by the tongue of Eastern Europe — Old Czech Republic — Croatians — mixed with cheap red wine makes crazed gloating girlfriends scatter — plot the data in a bottle and fly away

Some folk say things like ‘don’t change’ when they really mean
‘I wish you would alter your clothes’

Sam dances around me like a dervish
A special man who was at the *** end — break up — early of his laddy to go
Futile bit — **** of a little kiddie — exited

Poor sore raw roar furore More tears are fraught with gaunt ****** leanings — meaning seeming yearning — gone boyo of 15 —

Sam reminds me of an older woman — wise wizened—

Grown men cry too during a

Guffaw — **** taking falling off hopping laughter

The end of the story


Mimi Bordeaux February 11 2025