My poetry is about finding lost things.
If drinking makes you sick, don’t drink.
Find a clean puddle and dip your cup in that; drink the moon on the water.
My grandmother never wanted my grandfather to leave (he was an alcoholic). She had one sister who thought she was prettier than everyone else. Her grave has dead plants on it. And pink marble.
My poetry is about falling across the road as a bloody smear and making a new boundary, a new border.
My poetry is about an imaginary map.
I was born alone.
Wild roses are my favorite.
My poetry is about rotting and returning to the earth.
This post is inspired by Bhanu Kapil’s Blog
Photo by Felipe Santana on Unsplash
Begin when our mothers call us daughters the devil. Lone shadows skitter across the wall between bookcases and all the things that should have been thrown out, including you; the detritus of corners and cobwebs, boxes piled high with canned food, laundry, years of newspapers and unpaid bills.
Begin when our mothers call us daughters the devil as you evade sharp corners and the door that opens and closes; the border between madness and our small, fractured sanctuaries. Belong to the small bed, the belongings scattered around the small bed, the junk we will denounce when we want to grow up like desperate things, when we say we will never be like our mothers.
Begin when every gift, every meal, every scrap of clothing exists in their individual moments as the opposite of a slap in the face. Take the gifts with a smile and the moment her back is turned, run like hell. Answer the phone with an offering of innocence, eyes down. Maybe she won’t bite. Sleep as if nothing is wrong, sleep as if you are in the safest place in the world and then try to remember how to breathe.
Make believe, when our mothers call us daughters the devil, eventually rain will fall from the mouth of the full moon into the eyelets of our bedroom windows and fill the cloven prism.
This prose poem first appeared in Lupercalia.