I’m not my makeup
yet I draw
like child’s play
a path to find me
under my blood lip twists
and black brow turns
till the sidewalk of me
heaves
and the earth below
rises
as my dark desire
finds its joy
and double dares
the clouds to come.
I tried to close the opening
the bed rail made
but between the blood
in my eyes
and spots on the floor
the dishtowel could hold
no more
and I remember the gasp
my mother released
all the way to heaven
as her hand pressed
until the doctor
could prove
his stitching skills
and mother could
not thank him enough
for his knowledge
of quilting
and her hatred
for him
and his feminine ways
would bloody
her eyes
no more.
I Learned From the Best of Them
Bent over
in a mocking bow,
he should not
be jealous
of what I know.
For my fingers
know the quick wind
of a knife blade
taunting closer,
in a father’s control
of his child’s fear.
My eyelids know
the pain of closing
while trying
to look straight
ahead.
My back felt the spaces
welt between the bars,
the blackness of blood
on my white sheets.
I knew how
to hold it all inside
until my keyboard grabbed
my fingers tight
and forced them all
to fly away.
The Etch-a-Sketch
could draw me in
enticing my flexing fingers
to anticipate the feeling
of the erratic twisting
of its creamy knobs.
Hours would pass
before my neck would lift
in a final decision
to wipe it all clean
by flipping it over
and shaking it senseless.
My desire to leave
my artistic mark
with those jagged lines
of metallic entrails
retracing my thoughts
was again proven worthless.
A hundred and one things
compile today;
my back yields to the weight
of all of them.
Yet, my cat must be hugged.
My fingers deep,
press her close
till my breath slows
to her softening purrs.
Yet, my poem must be written
before I sleep.
Digging deep
I try to leave my mark
as blood is seeping
from her scratch on my thigh.
PROMPT 9: Write a self-portrait poem.
I have tossed aside my cover
to let the cool morning air
wake my skin,
my muscles,
my bones.
I stand.
In this moment,
this is all I am.
Later,
there can be organization,
a back up plan,
a process,
a sharing of my knowledge,
my theories,
my self.
Later,
students can prop up their heads,
upon their palms
interested, disinterested,
until the bell
or their blood
falls asleep
or wakes them up.
But in this moment,
this is all I am.
I have tossed aside my cover.
If You Want to Scare MeCover my windshield
with mist,
rain that morphs
into torrents,
torrents that flood
into fear,
fear that reminds me
of bloody sockets
where eyes
were lunch
for Hitchcock birds.
Leave me to grope
with my arms out straight,
bump into the chair
in the dark.
Darken my room,
cover my cage,
don’t let me see
the crimson water
streaming out of your
eyes tonight.
Your eyes are left
with empty promises.
Don’t let me see
tonight.
I probably should not
have agreed to be a zombie
in my step-daughter’s movie
where home-made blood
was tossed on me
by the bucket full.
I have successfully washed
the blood off my clothes,
but on two separate shootings,
hoping for protection
in a back pocket of my jeans,
two innocent cell phones,
were killed
by drowning.
Zombie phones
don’t come back to life.
They die forever
doing Heavy Duty.
It’s okay to use two cans
and a lifeless string
to a call a friend
when you are young
and immortal,
but not so much
at 52.
Under my bedspread
thrown over a card table
with only room
for a pillow,
a blanket,
a box of crackers,
and me,
safety could still
squeeze in.
But I grew
and it became difficult
to keep my legs inside,
and so I stopped
hiding there.
I would go to Mom
who would hold me
and tell me
time and time again
that everything
would be alright,
and in my innocence,
I believed her.
Until sometime in adolescence
I came home from school
and discovered
my mother crying,
no place
to hide her tears.
I pulled my bedspread
off my bed,
climbed up next to her
and wrapped it around us
telling her it would be alright.
We were old enough
to know better.
She just continued to cry.
Even though nothing was more frightening,
there was no room
to shed my tears.
She is sock footed
in her pajamas
pulling a worn throw
over her shoulder
now curving
into the deepest
corner of the couch.
I take the deep breath
that she cannot
and reach into my arsenal
of aspirin,
and hot compresses,
thermometers,
chicken soup,
and cool wet rags
to lay upon her brow.
It is hard to watch my child cry,
her eyes pink and longing,
her fingers weak and airy,
a trail of tissues
in her slow wake.
She empties her eyes,
and only the arm of the couch
and I
are able to read the message
in the wet dots
she drops:
Fix me, Mom.
I sit next to her
my hand rubbing on her foot,
her eyes finally closing
in exhausted sleep.
We breathe.