Tagged: the Memory
No One Can Hear You
I hear my mom hoping for it
my uncle tries to prevent it
at worst, he’ll collect it
my aunt prays someone will
do it for her
but no one will kill us for us
we walk ourselves to the door
we tell ourselves
this is your home
when they’ve all felt the same
this is food
when you can’t tell
this is your 11:30 Sprite
this is Tom Selleck, remember?
yes, he’s still alive
that was the doctor
no, I don’t know where he’s from
this is connected to you
this is your checkbook
I know, it’s an arm and a leg
would you like to go home?
would you like that?
Flat Earth
I remember in church
a woman was having trouble
praying to God
sexually abused
by her father and now her husband
she couldn’t take another man
Make God a woman, the pastor
told her. Granted, this
was a Methodist church
Mom liked it for the choir
Dad always felt
he could ignore what he didn’t like
the matter of interpretation
heavy. some things did happen. we
did slay our memories
we did find a dead spot
in the woods
i knew of it
in the way one knows our planet
through pictures
through the elements of trust
wind, fire, through blood
like a meteor disintegrated
how can I ever
get far enough away
to see
what is really the world
to see it touched
by the hands
we are told mean time
and know the forest
for the stars
how on Earth
will I recognize
my mother, her face
like there had been people
Apnea
the trees, their leaves dipped like eggs
into cups of dye, the one flaming oak
on Flaming Oak Cove that has not changed
noticeably, but tonight appears more
red than yellow, an act of collective
memory I contain only part of. I contain only
part of what it takes. I take things out of
the forest and lay them flat onto paper, like
these trees, too much on purpose. I
build my web between birds and train
them to fly in unison above tall grasses,
ponds, collecting bugs. but only in poems
only on weak bones perched in your mind
someone saves me each morning. is that you?
or do I save myself? have I somehow timed
the jump back on correctly, all these times
how have I not stayed too long? this
is where I have been for most of my life
Its Parallel Existence
Formerly of love appears
on grainy 90s television
She takes down my shorts by the pool
Her mouth is full of ice, if I remember, or
I tried to run
I remember my first kiss. I wiped it away
I remember I peed on a girl’s foot in line
to the diving board. If I saw her today, I’d maintain
it was dripping water, formerly
of ice, that it was unseasonably cold that day
not too cold
Snow untwisted from the curtain
Duck, dinosaur, contagion fused together
We had to get out of the pool
There is no end, it seems, to these
lines that never touch
The Earth & its Atmosphere
there must be a hole
for needing to be better
& hating yourself
through which
it leaves
we park somewhere
a trap
of green gasses
idling, a sun roof
the large holes
carried
in front of our bodies
like stealing art
the certain parts
of air that stick
before
being sent back
the false ones
the hopeful ones
the oxygen
the nitrogen
the courageous others
tagging along
swept up in it
we give each other
something good a little less
each time
here in the same place
but it’s still
some good
we finger the holes
in our hoodies
& in the atmosphere
we crack a window
we finger our mouths
through which words
emerge from
primordial
soupy throats
but where
before that? i struggle
sometimes
perspective… or
who was there
when it happened
a police officer?
a father?
a friend
who learns the world
by looking at you
looking at them
Insomnia
the eldest pursues an ice cream truck
on his bicycle. he goes much farther
than he is supposed to. when he gets
back he has to funnel the ice cream
into cups. they drink it like water. the
eldest drinks real water, such is the length
of the neighborhood, the surrounding town
at night the eldest is last to sleep. there
is something about being the last awake that
appeals to him, like being alive is a trick
that’s easier to do when people aren’t looking
look at the surrounding town, the approximate
length of the known world. a dog barks
through it. it responds to its own sound. the
eldest dreams of being understood, or swiftly
diagnosed, but there’s no one awake who
can do that now. there’s no point worrying
it’s like that everywhere he could go
The Land of Places to Stop for a Moment
still misplacing the allotted granules
an expected &
unopened door
i remember things i’ve thrown
in a way
that places them
back together
giantess, dinner plates, souls
i have looked
for deposits
inside of
under the guise
of not giving up
there is nothing inside us
we are whatever ledge
on which
we place
our time
Smear the Queer
it came like a lot of things did
because Some Kid said it
Some Kid spoke
the world into existence
and I worry there are things
I have forgotten to stop doing
Some Kid taught me so much
lessons that stick
to the outsides of my brain
leaf litter on a sticky larva
I listened because Some Kid is older
or taller, or he called me Little Man
in one case, Some Kid had spray-paint
and wrote on the retention pond wall
Jay is a faggot. so Jay was a faggot
and I didn’t go over there
it was Some Kid who taught us
Smear the Queer
I remember asking a friend to play
who was staying over
he said the teachers at school
had made them choose a different name
something
more appropriate
they called it Kill. he said
we could play Kill if I wanted to
Health Class
in health class we were taught
the respectful way
to sit in a room full of
desks that face each other. still,
the boys would race
to the front row to see
which of the girls wasn’t
wearing any panties, which
hadn’t folded their legs,
which had hemmed
their jean shorts
shorter
boys,
are we chasing girls?
or chasing the first boy?
that year
a man in a flowered shirt came
he put a condom on a carrot
the carrot was sharp, but it
did not break the condom
i remember thinking
it could not have been
his first choice vegetable
I Know, I Know
We are born. We are immediately
placed in the queue
of another birth. As infants
we gape like fish being moved
between containers. Latex lining the
hands – eating – understanding words
We are passed through membranes
Catching an animal for the first time is birth
Feeling the largeness of body, the crush
of loving hands. The imposition of self
on something’s insides, seeing them
Administering touch is birth
Each time done with a little more intention
More and more the membranes of latex
Driving home at night because of school
Remember we rationed the air?
Gaping like fish with the windows down
a larger membrane of screamable music
playing. Past that
the darkness, merging like bubbles
the coming to pass that nobody cares
That was a birth for me, when I realized
nobody cares. That the soul
is a giant child
holding the body. Loving the world
I think truly loving it, but crushing it
Taking it out of its home
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