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Literature Text
My day off.
I stand in sunlight
without asking.
I can watch it being day.
The mud is soft and cool at home.
I'd bury well without a casket,
I’ll be a naked pill for earth.
I build a garden box from wood,
smash my thumb.
Red bell
peppers;
too late for lettuce.
I had a premonition
I would live like this.
No one will remember me.
I’ll forget by Tuesday.
I stand in sunlight
without asking.
I can watch it being day.
The mud is soft and cool at home.
I'd bury well without a casket,
I’ll be a naked pill for earth.
I build a garden box from wood,
smash my thumb.
Red bell
peppers;
too late for lettuce.
I had a premonition
I would live like this.
No one will remember me.
I’ll forget by Tuesday.
Literature
the things we don't want to talk about
some days, mom wears the divorce
like a locket around her neck.
it's a simple piece -
clearly once beautiful, now tarnished,
and she never opens it anymore. some days,
mom wears the divorce like a bruise,
like the ones he left
on her arms. some days, she covers up
with makeup, pretty clothes,
forced smiles. other days, she wears it
like a badge, as if to say
i got through this,
i am strong. some days,
she is open and honest and unafraid,
and on these days, she talks
about the damage and wounds left behind,
and i wonder if all her scars
are shaped like his hands, too.
some days, mom wears divorce
like a sweater, like it's cold outside
eve
Literature
After Tuesday
Elizabeth,
I will not live like this anymore.
Not anymore.
There's a small Universe to the West,
that sits idle in Autumn,
I will be there.
Hinged on all sides,
by suicide maples
that fall from the trees like droplets of blood,
and that old Raven
(the blackbird that taught us Canasta
on the lawns by Cedars Lodge,)
he hovers quietly above me there, in the azure sky
like a guardian,
and those two shining moons Elizabeth,
the ones we happened upon
through the windowpanes,
between our screams and shouts last Tuesday night,
in this Universe, those moons weep misty vanillas
across a falling horizon and I am free,
yes, I will
Literature
Unbutton
I declared love dead.
There was a ceremony, and I did the obituary.
"Dear love. I told you so."
Then the burial of an empty gesture, broken
promises integrating with the earth.
I visited the grave, let my fingers run
along the unmarked stone. I would sit at the TV at night,
awash in a sea of detergent and other peoples' wives,
forgetting everything about this. One day I just woke up cold.
And it was fine.
I wrote my acceptance on the inside of my door.
Life is full as it is. Full of spoons and dirt and ways to slowly dig.
Full of reflections on what passes and what does not.
Curled up in itself, a wad of dirty bills. Life is
blu
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Ahh, I can really relate to this. Congratulations on the DLD. 