written on the mirror

No. I will not run.

even though my jogging shorts are all laid out,
sports bra on the bed,
gym shoes at the door.
Even though
outside
the pavement would be smooth
and cool
beneath my feet,
and I am inside
knee deep in volcanic fire overflow.
No. I will not run.

Anchor my ankles to the water pipe,
wrap my wrists with wire,
bind the belt about my waist.
Hold me still.
Push the inhalation through my lungs.
Breathe.
I will not move my legs
at all.
No. I will not run!

even though the running pulses through my blood.
Even though I used to speed on the adrenaline,
impromptu marathons at four a.m.,
exhilarating
down the open road
long before the lava could have even reached my pinkie toe,
approaching
hot against the heels,
and I'd have fled
to everyone's dismay.
My trademark unexpected race away.

But no.
I won't.
I will not run today.

Because my will

Because my will is weak,
tired as a Tuesday afternoon,
I stare, not with my eyes, but with my toes,
my feet outstretched, craving the ability of sight.

Because my will is weak
I gather mustaches and turtleneck sweaters,
tackle them to the corkboard with hair pins,
glitter them with glue and ground up birth control,
hoard baseball hats and sunglass cases, college football t-shirts,
other things that smell of strength
and are made of muscle.

Because my will is weak
I do not bake my bread with yeast,
I do not double lock my door,
I do not lace my shoes.
I am go ahead and run along and hurry up.
I am leave behind and straight away.
I am no more time to spare.

I am the collector.
I pile, build
and stand upon the mountain side I've made.
Because my will is weak.
And I want so very badly to be strong.

In time for breakfast

Inspired by Thomas McGrath's "Against the False Magicians"

Laughter must not charm us like the truth.
Hearty hahas fly by the healthy rose garden,
uprooting thorny stems, breaking them to the breeze.

Laughter must not charm us like the sadness.
Lilting giggles glide past a wilting bridal bed.
Blankets pull up over head, blocking out the brouhaha.

Laughter must not charm us like the sanctity.
Preservation of the heart is fundamental.
Nervous pulses do not make for perseverance.

Dismissal sleeps here now
amid the petals, pillows, heartbeats of rejection
and the shameful silence of whoever chuckled first.

Kinetic, or Jack-in-the-Box

I have this thing
full of rainbow sequins and popcorn fireworks.
It has the explosive power of a jack-in-the-box
wound tight,
toying with the springs, ready to burst,
to play.

I have this thing--
it sprinkles fairy godmother dust across my forehead,
composes harmonies through severed lines of poetry,
mixes purple paint with orange and green and makes the color red.

I have this thing--
it doodles winged creatures on the cushion of my office chair,
pays homage to guitar strings the day the monthly bills are due,
sweeps the dust rag underneath the couch during spring cleaning.

I have this thing
drenched in sooner or later,
scorched by
at some point and not much longer now,
melted into wait and
almost there,
frozen by the expectation of imperfection.

I have this thing--
I will misplace it yesterday
and found it tomorrow.
It will be falling up the drain.
I'll reach out and scoop it in
and wring it on
and squeeze it wet
and hang it overneath to dry.
I will press it ridged
and squish it flat
pick it down
and stretch it loose
and all the same, it will remain the same.
And
it will still be mine.


Thanks to dr. richard country for the line "I have this thing"

...

I am all here
in Chicago
in quiet stillness
in my lover's arms

I give you back your heart
I give you permission

There is a bird inside a cage,
lonely and loud in its silence.
I have held the key for long enough.
The honor has been mine.
A ceremony is in order for the passing over,
the giving back,
the sad exchange.

A melody is ripe today for composition.
A harmony is written to be hummed.
A requiem is ready in rememberance of how the caged bird sang.
I offer these to you.
They are pitiful gifts,
these pieces of poetry.
They are an excuse,
an apology because I cannot give my wings.

I only hope that you will fly on my pendants of prose.
For feathers are meant to spread across the sky--
feathers are meant to dip into inkwells--
feathers are meant to tickle history--
they are not designed to dwell in cages of the past
and the future has no need for keys.

I ordain you locksmith
I give you back your heart
I give you permission


The line "I give you back your heart, I give you permission" taken from Anne Sexton's "For My Lover, Returning to His Wife"