may.22-23.2011

           

                       

                        often, i am not thinking  about my family

and then           becoming a monster, both of us

creative,

              a mother once pausing

            with bad thoughts

that stick

  in relation to whiter things,

what we consider teeth

children don’t know about wind    or leaning

but they            get to feel their own personal weight

                        & we can put more sections in

                                    that involve my adult steps behind yours

                        our shoulders humming together

            it is not easy to  start thinking about    gravity

            &         what it wants,

picture  rows of feet and how

the height of a body

makes pavement a lot less

     of traveling

it’s this kind of  stacking that

i wish i knew,

how to weep

or at least

pile myself big enough

to hurt people

                  often          i am      proud of the things

            that come out

            but forget about

their leaving

so i       eat unusual foods

outside

                        or near grass

so that i can

                    feel different

toward you

when we’re in the same room

you remind me of

that [one] time

you were so good,

  you said

what

         about          my family

            or my name, once  inhabited

 by little balls of light

                        & i said

let’s be more like shoulders

                        i would never kick anyone

            in the ribs

                        but only because

                                    i cannot reach them

may.22.2011

 I apologize ahead of time        for  all   the

photographs that have               never

                                                been written

for the limbs

we talk about           frequently

bcuz

we have a lot of them

&

they can’t distinguish each other

little categories, sure         

but just

blowing into empty space

           

            slowly

& it’s been a           very

                                    complicated

                               relationship

with my

                                                anything really weighing

on my

                                    last time i honestly can’t

really start meeting folks,    how i relate to mine

the only way     i can     ever      really         see you

           

            through displacement,

you, or glasses of old cabernet

you, or windows with dirty hand signals

you: (a little bit) tricky long-distance

from/manipulation/or/that time we knew about walking home

i would sleep

                        /if i were     something else/

stop being fooled by

                        constant breathing

so i could

  harness

my

    peripheries

in getting lost

                            if i could just be

                            OK

                            and

                            sleepy

but instead,

i am not moving at all until

the week before i am                comfortable,

since there are things          i just can’t say,

but what if i just    deep down

remove the     years ago parts,

            and remember the good fortune

            standing between us

            and what it looks like

            to be a daughter

            when i finally think i can

            stick my hearing around

            the corners of your mailbox

            or tell you about

            the risk of changing topics

            or

            the fucking conversations

            you might compare me to

            if my ears became bobcats

            and i stopped saying thank you

but first, i wanted to

                        get all this down,

so i took my right leg

and then i took my left one

then my right

She wanted second-hand smoke the way his mouth said “hi”

the ocean is not a good idea. is around 6 years old. is full of freckles.

the ocean embarrasses me. low-income, squirming.

makes me feel different around people in tshirts, with long legs,

or else if i pretended to write a letter

and it only spilled out, raw sewage all over,

on the airplane’s descent. the vulnerable anthropologist. 

the ocean is confidently predicted by my embarrassing hunger.

the way we made pretend ocean using ropes and finger-sized breath. 

an embarrassment of riches.  (yes, i did say many…

            but i retextured all the little swimming holes.  the fish,

held in place.  movement and the needles, a sewing that makes thread get thicker.  time

becomes a decoration, or a paperweight.  the ocean unravels into paper, just the same,

children splashing at the water basin, the enamel continuous and shoulder-like.

there’s a way you can rent water for these kinds of things,

said one child dancing on cold circles, ignited and strands dripping, pulled.

the entire scene shifts and focuses on one tiny anchor,

keeping the boat

in place, fifty men caught pushing their least

favorite months into the burning engine.

there’s never been a water cooler more easily filled.

if i could step into it, or you, like so many before me,

putting water on my face with my palms

laid out together as if to tell you

i like the weight, the water pulling our hair

into thick globs of rope, infinite fish,

the one child still under her umbrella,

listening to the circles blown out of your mouth.