Beauty

 I stole beauty from another girl--

Ripped it right out of her hands
In a hail of cosmetics and hairspray,
Then ghosted away with it to my underground lair.
But when I tried to bash it open,
The lock wouldn't budge
And anyway, it wasn't my size.


I took it to my mother's house and dropped it dead center on her holiday table--
Shrieking, I raked my broken fingernails right down to the bone of love and hatred that props us together, and she
Embraced
The locked
Foreign
Beauty that I ripped off from some bitch on the bus,
And said, "Daughter,
At last!
Welcome home."

___________

for What's Going On? "Beauty"

Lady Poet

 

Writing poetry is a fine thing,

to laze in one's garden wearing a sun hat

as a lady may do of a June afternoon.

Poetry is the Boston Marriage of the arts--

termed by some a higher devotion

and by others a harmless quirk.

The lady poet must avoid unpleasantness

and lift her literary skirts

above the puddle in the road.

Upon discovery of my desire to be a lady poet,

my father entombed me with his own manuscripts

mummified by papier-mache and shellac.

My mother tried to can me with her tomatoes

to debut at some later date

in a more malleable and acceptable guise.

Writing poetry is a fine thing,

to jump in the blood and guts wearing suspenders

and getting arrested after midnight.

Drunk on gin, turns of phrase, and love of fire

to dwell in the house of the falling crossbeams

for seven years give or take

And then to sleep with men, sleep with women,

sleep with marvels and nightmares

such as no one ever speaks of, and then to scream it.

After all of this, it will be a fine thing

to laze in the garden wearing my scars and hip-hoorahs

as a lady may do of an October afternoon

My father dead in his grave, my mother careful in hers,

and my many selves rolling over in theirs,

all for this higher devotion, this quaint quirk, this thing that I live for.

______________

For Dverse Poetics: Reimagining the Familiar hosted by Dora

and What's Going On--"Morn of Restoration" hosted by Mary

Music: Chantel Chamberland Temptation (written by Tom Waits)

Concubine of the Quarter Moon

 

I did not hire the day laborer inside whose bones I ride. 

Here is motion, here is time, here is the spinning world.

Here is the trowel, mortar, and metronome hand industrious.

Here is the moon, the hidden language, the valuable burl. 

Here is my compulsion to sing, and my throat empty as a new vase. 

Here is the afflicted tree holding one jewel and a thousand birds.

Merged, the swordsman and the healer, missionary from God.

Ice and ivy grown on my tongue break the bricks with words.

I am a scorched bird born of lightning, hatched from geode silence.

I am more beautiful than any river. I am cloaked in thorns and tar.

One day, laborer and wall will dissolve intestate

and I will rise, concubine of the quarter moon, magna voce avatar.

_______

Crimson Amperage

In my fingers, a knife with two blades and no handle.
On the blades, blood.
Enter my relative, with ten mouths
who wears the knife as jewelry.

In my mouth, a scream with two pitches and no end.
On the sound, a honed edge.
"Hush," say the ten mouths
but I sing back crimson amperage.
_______

some cold steel 55 for my BFF.