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Poem Trumps Hate

Month

February 2017

Security Deposit

I am traveling.

And so he opens my mail,

I imagine, with a thumb.

He texts to tell me the amount

The landlord gave me back.

 

And you know,

He also pushes back the edges of death.

He tells me what my life is for.

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Reincarnation, August

This is one of those nights

That I believe in love so much

I can’t wait

For my next lives.

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Teenager

I thrashed against the decade:

Search the walls of my high school bedroom,

Soaked to the insulation with sorrow.

White girl sorrow, sure.

But no less deep with the loss of a friend,

A heart near dead at twenty — isn’t that plenty?

The soul wounds.

I became a fish who keeps leaping out of the water

And then complains about the sunburn,

The inability to breathe.

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Gaia

The earth itself is that Old Testament God

Flooding us with wrath to start anew

Or at least She’s taking His cue.

Trust me:

The zebras have seen this all before

And all the inchworms too.

God doesn’t die with us

But he gets lonely,

Which is why you will see this again in millennia to come

He and Mother Earth locked in a battle of ideas for the better one.

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Epitaph

She experienced curls

Wrote beautiful words

And was spared having to swallow her death down whole.

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Becky

My head will always hit the shallow end of the pool,

Or perhaps it just drains when I dive in.

I’m trusted no depths of my own:

Wherever I go I am told

I am not man enough

(On one hand)

Or advantaged too much

(On the other)

To understand the world.

Even if it’s true,

(Perhaps it is,

I’m no Other, and I know it)

It makes me wonder why

 

No one thinks of me

As an emissary.11188324_10101656964895917_9068624661168065170_n

Her Life Is Hers

She lays them out like marbles,

The flesh ones and the white

On the calendar of her life.

She blesses her flesh

(Though the Man says she has no right)

And tells it Thank you, but let’s hold it.

This month, I will go to Girl Scout camp.

I will bleed through it, but I will do it.

I will learn to tie the knots. To climb the trees.

This month,

She says (another marble moving),

I will fall in love.

I will know what it is to lose him,

I will learn to keep the love for myself without.

And so on, she went:

This month, a novel. A graduate degree. A chance to see the world.

(My mother says beware, she thinks,

My grandmother thinks I am a ware, she feels,

I say I am aware, she says; not a where for some small thing that is as unready as I am unwilling).

I will bleed through it, I will bleed for it all,

I do not mind.

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Her First White Hair

You expect it might happen someday,

But only to your elders.

We tend to agree that if nature has its way

You will stand weeping before

Your grandmother, your father.

Perhaps if you are loved and loving,

Nightmares come along these lines,

Your partner under the earth.

Friends are another thing entirely,

 

They are anyone’s guess.

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Index

Your inscriptions are hidden in my books

The fictions still visible from the spine.

Crack open the first pages:

Here is the heart,

See,

Here is the soul,

Here, the guts.

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