anthology
a collection of poems scribbled in a notebook over the year twenty-twenty three
october twenty eighth- proclamation of the white onion
under the black mid-October sky
over the rumble of Dad's white SUV
our shared brown eyes
peek through the sun roof
my big brother
of year 2000
of tight cotton tees
of clean hair gel
of thin gold chains
squints at the glowing sliver
"that's called a white onion"
despite years
and hair gel
and gold chains
he is still
cobalt blue braces
after school robotics club
and basketball shorts
he is still my big brother
september twenty first- squeeze
our heart beats:
happy chattering clams aside laborious breaths
sweet telling of gospel through choked sobs and hugs
the world cradles us in its tilt
pouring sirens, deep bass, heavy chorus
a hissing growing higher and higher
like a rocket for takeoff
[enter]
an inquisitive piano tune
an image of a bright light
your uncarved face,
eyes squinting
with a toothless smile
[exit]
all good someday
september fourteenth- roadside memorial
when we're walking along a deep street under moonlight
and lightning wipes the dark sky with daylight
i see our train ride home and our untangled brains
outstretched like paper skeletons
i hear second harmonies of a voice without sound
i see blind nothingness behind my eyes
and we're enveloped by metal-buttoned thermal jackets
let's take the train home to a city velvet with nighttime rain
let's hold on tight and share this dance
in a brand new house with so many doors
and let's make a synergetic kitchen broth
of the best damn poetry in the world
september seventh- bleach
so the sick rinses your nose with ginger ale
and sucks your breath like a dark blue plunge
and there's no going back now
and your head screams video nasties
and the inner corners of your eyes are syrup-red
and you're thinking buzzcuts and bleach
and everything drips with everything
august thirteenth- in dreams/a woman is a wolf
I've cut my hair to the ends of my ears
somehow my heart doesn't tremble anymore
at the wind beating needles into my neck
I am a mandala of wholeness
I am the flesh of alchemy; I am a silk matrix
I lie in a sparkly bed of sin counting under
hanging hearts wrapped in bone-white rope
I am the consequence of bladed risks and sharp teeth
a woman is a wolf; a woman is a wound
and she will devour for the rest of her life.
july twenty third- twin mattresses, river boats, and other games
i'm chewing bruised peaches
and listening to your songs
and i miss you oh so dearly
someday can we get together
and dye our hair strange colors
i crave reinvention and company/
i wanna tattoo poems
on all of our bodies
so you can feel the ink
the way i feel the ache
that lines my stomach
and stretches for your heart/
our fingertips are calloused and quarter-scented
and the buzz between them fills seven swimming pools exactly/
we've burned under the savannah sun enough
so i'll close my empty sketchbook
we'll put dinosaur stickers on our faces
and i'll take prehistoric polaroids with you/
we'll dream of driving past state lines
to cut our hair and hug/
can we syncopate the summer
and take one more picture/
lets go to bed before
you're a ghost again/
but i have to let you know
there's an animal inside me
and there's dandelions
growing from its jaws
please take care of them for me
take one last picture/
june twenty eighth- one day, space exploded and left you hidden in the sand
if the veins in your hands sprout and stretch like the branches in trees, do you both breathe life the same way?
if you throw a punch with your fist balled up and bones tight like a rams horn, are you equally stubborn or did you evolve that way?
they say when you raise a conch to your face and listen, you don't really hear the ocean, but the fluid inside your ear rattling about
but if the swirls of a shell and the spiral of your cartilage are the same shape, are you both deep blue?
i can't stop thinking about how your nerves are lightning and rivers at the same time
how the air quivers under your voice and you sing sand dunes right in front of you
how life curls up, bones exposed like an isopod
how when you whisper to me, i hear the ocean
and somehow i know we're all the same
june twenty eighth- wisdom teeth
my jaws are dormant for the rest of june
the drugs wore off but i'm still asleep
if i swirl the atlantic in these bones i'll heal
hunger scrapes the bottom of my gut
like the concrete pool floor did my lover's foot in april
i fear both leaving scars
before my stomach conjures an ocean of its own
i must cook up poems soft enough for me to eat
spit out blood like a shadow boxer
and swallow triptychs of big fat pills
if my kick drum heart beats too fast a rhythm
my mouth may spill joy;
i may flood with a sucker-punch red
i must succumb to a well of bitter black tea
wake up soon
wake up soon
wake up soon and eat well
june fourteenth- red forty/mancala
i. i cut my friends hair today. she wanted to even out the sides of her bangs because they were too blunt for her liking. i snipped away the excess right by her smile, ginger flecks adorning the tile.
ii. she sits on the end of my bed in the clothes she’s gone out in, i don’t tell her i have a thing about that.
iii. we talk and talk, occasional bursts of connections occurring; a creation of adam, a buzzing nerve spark; understanding the tumbling life of a teenage girlfriend bored in summer, not ready for anything ever at all.
iv. we go to the store and buy gobs of cheap, sugary candy with my parents money. we shoveled handfuls of sweets into our mouths, the stuff consisting of more colors and numbers than anything. we eat over a film, despite not really caring for either. we casually speak about true love and joy between bites of swedish fish. we speak about first jobs, driving tests, and boyfriends.
v. later this night i am typing on my too-bright phone screen, scraping any goodness that hasn’t been sucked away by hours of tv-watching and stomach pains.
vi. i close my eyes to a rapid whirlpool of laundry. a flashing turbulence! sign. a run on sentence. i take a gulp of fresh air. i’ll hold and cradle it in my chest, but it just fizzles back into a bubbly mess in my lungs, choking my throat and spilling into my stomach again. no matter how deep i draw in, i collapse and wake up mad again; i drop clear raindrop marbles into every passing wooden pit until my turn is over.
vii. i am drowning in the summer. i must press the off button, buckle my seatbelt, and punctuate. i must stop my sense swirling down the drain, in a great red forty mess.
-
may twenty third- will you look down at the stars with me?
the ocean muscle tips herself over like a pitcher of milk; the tides tuck back in
you lie down on the ground and imagine yourself on the green earth’s underbelly/
looking down at the sky
and not falling/
feeling yourself cling to the earth
the pressing force of gravity/
realizing you’re not going anywhere/
-
may twenty third- cosmic mud
crop circles
dog yawns
sunspots
coffee cup stains
eye irises
ink blot tests
-
april twenty seventh- good china
suddenly there’s a crack in the glass
it’s okay
it’s okay
it’s okay
this is the good china
each painted flower in its place
sculpted to perfection
safe with me
i ran my hands under white-hot water for weeks
but nothing could scrub you away
crash
i mourn a young, bright-eyed me
dreaming of a sparkling fairytale
growing up to dream of forgetting september
i stare at my shattered perfection
shame stains my cheek
it’s broken
it’s broken
it’s broken
it’s okay
it’s okay
it’s okay
i flinch at brown buzzcuts
i look twice at green eyes
i hold my breath in your neighborhood
and simply pray i faint
i relentlessly repeat my rituals to make bad things right
but you still felt so wrong
nothing could rid the heart-sick nerves swirling in my chest
the blue and white cranes dancing on the china
the good china
the perfect and still ceramic
it’s a mosaic
you said maybe we loved each other
if you “loved” me, why did it
hurt so bad
hurt so bad
hurt so—
you still leave tangles in my hair
you still leave holes in my sweaters
you still leave me praying
it’s okay
it’s okay
it’s okay
april twenty seventh- title: cut
you're a sunbeam smudged on my brow
you’re peach pits; old gashes
artificial perfection
papercuts and breaking things
and keeping souls safe and
i am not a winner
i feel the buzz
the unbrushed dust
i praise you again
i praise you again
i praise you again
-
april twenty sixth- subject line: could i ever win at anything? (tldr; winners and fireflies and good china)
i’m not a winner but somehow you love me
somehow you’re the big teddy bear at the carnival
somehow you’re the gold star
somehow you’re the shiny medal
finally! not bronze or silver, but pure shining gold!
you make me live; in tears i reach through sharp grass blades and search for the sky
somehow the clouds seem closer to me every day
i saw your face so precious and glimmering i just wanted to hold it and keep it safe like a sparkly firefly in a thick glass jar
we were so awkward maybe one day it’ll feel so awkward we don’t have to think that far back anymore and
and maybe i didn’t drop this precious gem and it’s still my favorite and not bound by cheap rubber bands and maybe it wasn’t just a plain quartz and it really was the finest crystal adorning my young self
maybe i don’t think about all the cracks in the glass and maybe it’s a perfect window and there’s no scratches here
and this is good china it’s all good china
no heart-sick nerves swirling in my stomach like the blue and white flowers on the ceramic
it’s not broken
it’s not broken
it’s not broken
do i feel again? or have i just forgotten how?
-
march twentieth- grand indian california wedding
when you see the juice and flesh of the sweet sliced fruits of your mothers favorite shade of red and gold/
when you hear the jingling of gold bangles that adorn the women and the clinking of the metal pots they hold in henna stained hands; you hear the shining chatter of sisters in the kitchen/
when you smell the ginger sparks and the thick flour naan and you taste the good chana your mother makes for you because it’s tame enough for your shy tongue/
when you feel the vibrations in your chest as your numerous aunties and uncles joyfully revel/
when you are squeezed into chairs and benches and hammocks; you feel the world filled with our grand bursts of people/
your auntie (with the ink-tar hair and the hooked nose) asks what you’ve painted since you last saw her/
your uncle (who shares the hairpin smile of your father) wants to see your writing/
they want to know who you are, really/
when you feel the itchy fabric of your loose marigold clothes as you cling to your mother so you don’t get lost at sea/
sit down
let your henna dry
enjoy your food/
observe the pieces of your mosaic as the dal-yellow sun shines through them
see who sewed each patterned square of the big, soft quilt
-
march twentieth- heaven does not meet you
the jarring experience of plunging deep into culture only to return to modernity; diving into the deep end of an ocean, a body abundant with life and color, and shooting back up to greet chlorine in your nostrils
you notice the foam fruits, the plastic everythings, the clean-whiteness of it all
heaven does not meet you with sterile overhead lights
-
march nineteenth- hollow shells of madness
why, as we revel in our carnal bacchanal, we think of you!
we sing:
o’! all hail the mountain trees
the angels wings have fallen
all hail the mountain trees
we’ll be there in the morn!
as we dance we kick the stardust beneath our boots!
-
march seventeenth- st. theiamania and her martyrdom
constantina and her heartstring band/
i suffer some sort of hamartia;
a lack of martyrdom;
a lack of following through/
marching to the edges of death
to turn on my feels and hum a birdsong
let alone lead a grand heartstring band to rose-crush crescendos/
-
march twelfth- is this why birds sing?
i hum my love for you/ i hum and play with your hair when you lay on my chest because that is my soul’s way of sewing a sweet song into yours/ i whisper to you/ is this why birds sing?/ some sort of solid and natural way of the delicate thing we’ve contrived?/ is this why birds sing?/
is this why the world turns?/
-
march twelfth- song for k
i'm sorry i burned down your house, my friend
i’m sorry i stripped the tenderness from your life
i’m sorry your water got dirtied up again
i’m sorry it’s getting too cold in here
and you can’t even strike a match under your shoe
i’m sorry you’re nothing but ash now/
i know it’s pure fire from here/
i crushed the rose petals straight from the stem
ripped them away and let them fall/
i burned down your kitchen
shiny dinner table and warm food
laughing spices
ceramic plates with lilies painted
cliché this-is-home signs/
she won’t hug you with a dirty apron anymore
she won’t cut the onions anymore but i’m still/
hardly anyone deserves my mom
but nobody deserves to lose her/
i know i don’t need to feed you but
you’re starving now and i can’t watch/
i most certainly dread upcoming june
when my mother asks if you’re visiting again
if you’ll paint my nails a sickly teal
if we’ll adorn each other with plastic stars
if she may sing you happy birthday/
now, i must remember
i never owed you a meal
you will be just fine
you’re neither tethered to me nor this kitchen table/
-
march eighth- sinewy dreams
i dreamt i was splitting hairs for a sign
they fell apart just fine and everything would be okay
i dreamt i tested a shiny new nerve x-ray machine
and the wiry blue things clashed and struck hard
and for just one night, I was lightning
-
march fifth- rouge
you flashed me burning eyes
you laughed dead roses and hornets
when you were small
you stole your mothers rouge
but you took her temper too
-
march fourth- i am
blanched almonds
milk teeth
the trim of your bedroom walls
the corners of your copper-handled cabinets
the peeling heaven-yellow wallpaper
scraped ceramic soup bowls
singing myself to sleep
-
march fourth- angel hunting
prairie fire
crop circle
common cattail
freckled egg
holy crow
broke-back bible
-
march third- violent winters
split the apple open with your palms/ trace the core/ count the seeds/ tell me how i am violent winters and crueler summers
-
february twenty eighth- common violet
you are a fossil
i am bones
rend the meat from my vessel
scrape the dirt from yours
crack me open and discover
the common violet
hungry, fervent, full of flesh
i am but an empty and cobwebbed
set of cracked ribs;
i am but blanched almonds;
i am but pressed and suffocating roseleaf
february twenty eighth-when i wear pretty things
i am a homemade heart
a mother of pearl
i am a fawn in heaven-bright headlights
bejeweled and adorned; chained and hooked
-
february twenty seventh- the joy of summer fire
firecrackers laughed
electric cicadas sang;
the gods rumbled beneath the dirt
-
february nineteenth- waves
i told my friend she's like the ocean
and she smiled like its waves.
february second- where the persimmons grow
the persimmons grow where i am thinking of you. they grow where i am packed with effervescence. they grow where i am jumping with gratitude. they grow where i have firecrackers in my chest and lightning in my eyes. the persimmons grow on aisle three. the persimmons grow in the library. they grow in my living room and in your bed. i swallowed a handful of seeds and prayed a garden would start in me.
january thirtieth- winter chemistry
inside my chest is a butter-colored finch
feverishly fluttering
beating against my lungs
fighting to my throat
rapping my harpstring chords
then tumbling to the pit of my stomach
january twenty ninth- do you still squint at the sun?
i once sang a childish song
when you would lie in the grass
adorned with earth’s hair
among dandelion stars
the sun bleached your sweat-slicked curls
you laughed a firecracker laugh
days of april heat, of punch-red berries
of cloud eating, of scarlet crushes
of air rippling like a puddle
days the color of a pigeons back
trembling under summertime
-
january twenty fifth- lightning: a holy harvest
drawing wind’s blood into her vessel
scarlet wash stains her cheek
numbness brands her lips
stunned, she’s vintage taxidermy
the raw apple climbs to her throat
she engulfs the white-hot burn
a beacon of electric howls
she ignites the light harvest
she sears coarse, earthly flesh
sore , feverish heart rot
pulp-crushing star death
o’ scorching Seraphim
pleading to the Pleiades
the birth of bestial madness
-
january twenty fourth- post-mortem précis
divine indulgences, devilish decadence
devouring language and sugar-soaked fruit
carving sweet madness from my vessel
rending the flesh from my collarbones
becoming bestial perfection
adoring my starshine, studying my symbols
mending the sparkling crackle in my bones
learning the art of candor
-
january twenty fourth- hedonism
drinking your perfume
like a strawberry spirit
sweetness rots my milk-teeth
passion spills down my bones
i blossom, i die
-
⭐