Monday, April 30, 2012

Al Regreso

I have returned to some of my most favorite places in the world. I am writing from San Cristobal de las Casas in Chiapas after spending two days in Xela. I am returning to so many things tangible and intangible. Estoy contenta y no falta nada. It has been three days and I have already completed two poems. One is in English and the other Spanish and, for now, the one in Spanish will not be translated.


You slid right through my fingers
right through my lips
like words never spoken
between 4am bathroom trips and
bare-assed bathroom tile sits

Failing to recover
the clots of you that sank
beyond the curve of the toilet drain.

Your blood in mine stained
the blankets and sheets
streaks of loss marked my thighs
dried up cries became empty sighs
an empty womb and a wound
that will reopen month after month
in remembrance.

I sat staring out the window
for a long long time
as the soft white snow
covered everything.


En un momento
cae el sol de mi cielo.
En otro minuto
subo a volar.
En el cielo tan oscuro
vuelo con mis propias alas
en el cielo mio.

Vuelo y descanso en las nubes
porque son mias tambien.
El viento viene, el viento mio,
y me agarra de las alas
y me carga a los destinos nuevos;
nuevos pero bien familiares
lugares que conozco
pero los que nunca he visto.

Acá me encuentro.
Me encuentro agradecida
por mi cielo sin sol,
por mis alas
y mi viento que me deja a volar.
Me muestran como descubrir,
el la oscuridad,
que soy la luna
la luna de mi propia cielo.

Tuesday, April 17, 2012

Morning Prayer

The beginning of movement

this melodic moment


between two worlds

words without syllable

or syntax

some call it ‘surrender’

I say that sounds too easy

and yet not simple enough.

‘Suspension’ seems somehow more appropriate

or perhaps ‘morning prayer’ will do.

Monday, April 16, 2012

Blast from the Past

I have been seeking distraction from school work quite regularly lately. My distraction of choice today has been thumbing through the stack of old journals on my bookshelf. There seem to be hundreds of little one-two lined thoughts scribbled into margins and unedited poems on napkins stuffed into the journals' cover pockets. Resurrecting these journals feels like discovering old photo albums of my most personal memories.

Here is a little untitled, unedited bit I found from 2008. Upon reading it, I remembered exactly where I was and what was happening when I wrote it. Bisbee, AZ at the Stock Exchange bar listening to Dylan Charles and his band play their hearts out.

To be free
on two knees
like the metallic pause
of the trumpet's cry
or the saxophones weeping.

To live in loss
as if it was ever
not so.

It's the same as letting go
of anything
of everything
you never had.

Like the love
that has not yet filled
or fit
the contours
of your insides.

Releasing can be relieving
but it can also be deranging.

Listen up,
don't you sit still, child,
tap tip tap your toes
nod and bob that head
switch and sway those hips.

The trumpet and the saxophone
will tell you all you need to know for now
this sound.

Wednesday, April 4, 2012

My Sweet Lorde

As the end of a semester approaches it brings with it urgent demands of my time and attention. And, as is in my nature, I am meeting this full of resistance and rebellion. Don't fret, I'm still getting shit done, but I am redefining how I am going to do this whole nursing school thing. I am finding little ways to do things my way; little beautiful rebellions to keep me crazy.

One of my most worthy distractions has been discovering and delving into the work of Audre Lorde. I am currently reading a book of poetry by her called Black Unicorn. I keep having the urge to rub my face on its pages. That's the only way I can describe how I feel about her poems, I want to rub my face in them.

Here are two of my many new favorites.


make me whole again
to love
the shattered truths of me
spilling out like dragon's teeth
through the hot lies
of those who say they love
when I am done
each shard will spring up
complete and armed
like a warrior woman
hot to be dealt with
slipping through alleyways
of musical night people humming
was a white dude.

Fog Report

In this misty place where hunger finds us
seeking direction
I am too close to you to be useful.
When I speak the smell of love on my breath
distracts you
and it is easier for me
to move
against myself in you
than to solve my own equations.

I am often misled
by your familiar comforts
the shape of your teeth is written
into my palm like a second lifeline
when I am fingerprinted
the taste of your thighs
shows up
outlined in the ink.
They found me wandering at the edge
of a cliff
beside the nightmares of your body
"Give us your name and place of birth
and we will show you the way home."

I am tempted
to take you apart
and reconstruct your orifices
your tongue your truths your fleshy altars
into my own forgotten image
so when this fog lifts
I could be sure to find you
tethered like a goat
in my heart's yard.

Monday, April 2, 2012

Girrrl, you crazy!

I have always been uncertain as to what makes one crazy. Some of the most intelligent, creative, interesting and vibrant people I have known in my life have been, at some point, deemed mentally unstable. It seems as though sanity is a sort of tight-rope walk on an invisible chord. Some learn from those before them and/or society how to walk this tight-rope with relative ease and stability while others try, fall and never quite seem to get back up again. The former are considered sane while the latter are insane... pretty straight forward, right? But there is a third category and it is a most perplexing one. It consists of those who know how to balance upon this invisible chord and yet choose to fall from it and then rise back upon it. They continue to fall-rise-fall again and again in some mystical dance their entire lives. We call these people artists, mystics, geniuses, crazy people. And, there are many of us.

I have decided to re-post a poem I wrote in 2009 for my kindred crazies.

Ode to Lunacy

It was not asked for
but accepted
Peculiar preconditions
Delicate dispositions

Such senseless states
Tending us toward
Seasonal psychosis
and teeter-tottering tendancies

To those blessed accursed ones...twos... seven thousands
Unaccounted for
Bound beyond margins becoming
The spines of hard backed
History books

This is for those who see
Whose knees bounce
Keeping time with
The movements
and music
Of their mind

Let these lines be an ode
To those
Whose hands and hearts
Make the beauty we only dream about
Whose lives are like
Broad daylight
and its under appreciated honesty

From those of us who
Know we've known
Only half-lives and lies
We thank you.

Sunday, April 1, 2012

A Personal Geography

There is a place above the navel
and below the breastbone where
There is an old woman looking out a window.

There is a newborn child
held by its mother.
There is a mother holding
her child that will never be born.

There is a woman wading in a stream;
there is a puddle up to her knees.
There is an urge to throw things out.

An empty cage

A singing crow

There is what I believe myself to be
And there is all that I do not yet know.