songs about death, pt. 21

the wishing has gone to the bottom of the well
but the words come now like an ocean swell

at the edge of the world is a girl perplexed
she does not know if she should stay or flex

the wheat that is not wheat grows with the weeds
when you are dead you can no longer plant any seeds

change your name, change your face
soon you’ll be going to a different place

a place where the moon is always dark
but you hold in your cupped hand a spark

sometimes it can be more than just a trope,
this thing called hope.

Advertisements

to exist in the moment between the opening and closing of an eye–

not even breath will save you now, we drown in azure lightness
with honeycomb hearts that crumple at the slightest touch.
i have been here. i have been here before, at this place where
i am alone with myself and insane. my arms are starlit scars
that open again and again like mouths that will not shut up,
and the flesh of my abdomen swells with infection that i carry
as close to me as a baby, something i refuse to give up, for
without it, there is no meaning left in the lover’s touch so
soft against my face that pulls you in like a black hole–
you look at me and you are already doomed. there are teeth
that grind bone to powder here and lies as big as universes,
memory that has gone to ash but you can still wake and feel
the grit of it on your tongue. i was never more trapped than
when they said i could go. i was never more afraid than when
i had to name myself, explain myself for what i was and what
i had done. for how do you explain nothing, nothing, nothing.

death poem, pt. 295

we are too tired for poetry now
bones congealing inside their sacks of flesh
i drink glass after glass of water with a lodestone
at the bottom, just to keep together these days

once a man broke me in order to have me
and i let him
once i loved a girl
but she didn’t let me
once i leave none of this will matter
no blood-
letting

the grasses beside the highway
are sprouting white feathered tips
that i could brush with my fingers
if i just leaned out the car window
a little more

i practice portraiture with the tip of my lit cigarette
but the eyes never stay just right

i don’t have a room, a space of my own
where i can lie naked spread-eagled on the floor
and wait for them to stone me

so you’ll find me down by the river,
wearing my coat with the large deep pockets

i never wanted to be more than anything other than what i wasn’t. is that so much to ask.