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24 April 2009 @ 02:37 pm
Scenes from the Future

At ease in the sweat-slick stick of black summer, I peel my bare thighs from the plastic that has banded red stripes across my pale and freckled skin. The bounce of my laugh echoes—someone passes me the can that drips cool relief to my knees.

I feel my life in flashes. They burn white and hot; each moment is a hand at my elbow, my waist—the flicker of my hair at the back of my neck and a flushing along my spine. I am a slip, I am slipping, there is a slipping in me: skin and cotton.

Some moments slow to montage pace: a head turns, a song trips onto the scene, the wind stirs something deep, deep, deep.

I wait at the crescendo of a hill, where the city swells and breaks into something new. Doors close, the light fades to pink, and then a bruisey haze and then the electrical buzz of just another metropolitan night. I swell. I break. I become something new.

Words swing on vines that web the planet, are heard, repeated, praised. People cry or sit straighter or fall, fall, fall into the valleys I constructed for this purpose, this gathering of souls.

I find, sometimes, the perfect moments, tucked into a warming mug, a cool day, a tune that sinks into my bones.

Someone will always love me, I know.

Things end. I find, afterwards, the stains they leave behind, the shapes I can’t remember, can’t identify. Their edges fuzzed, unspooling.

I write. The world goes quiet.

©2009
Concrit welcome
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20 April 2009 @ 05:34 pm
Shelving

Paperbacks, their spines fanned, pages
waved from water damage. Scraps
of paper I once tucked in as place-
holders.
Books I Have Never Read.
Books I Have Read Four Times
and will again.
And then again.
Dad’s French-English dictionary, purchased
when he wore his hair long. Had never
dreamed me. Still studied and traveled
and wished.
My old jewelry box, the ballerina that tries
to spin within, her spring bent, her tune slow—
a dirge. Her pockets of plastic jewels.
The clock that stopped ticking at noon or midnight,
any day, when I wasn’t looking, and I never bothered
with a new battery or the right time.
Grandma’s china dolls, perfect and yellowed,
with their painted Cinderella faces,
their dresses like shells.
Shoeboxed memories closed within the word
“PRIVATE”: tickets, a folded program,
a prideful grade.
An invitation to junior prom, framed in plastic.
Last night’s empty mug of tea.

©2009
I would really appreciate feedback.
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10 April 2009 @ 01:07 pm
Maurine

They tucked her memory between
my names, a stone I was expected
to carry forward, to keep safe
—gleaming.  They gave me her
provenance to maintain.

“Diamonds are strong,”
Mom writes in sloping cursive.
“Wear it and remember.”
 
In my head she is soft and square-jawed,
dressed in an ill-fitting grandma suit. 
She is sick and smiling.
Dad shows me a picture and I see
an old woman I do not know.

“I hope you will cherish
this gift handed down from
Mimi to your grandmother
to me.”
 
Grandma gives me Mimi’s costume jewels,
all cracked plastic or tarnished metal—an allergic
reaction below the surface.  In my jewelry box,
it sits largely untouched, pulled out only for
Halloween or playing dress-up.

“Wear it and remember
how much I love you,”
Mom writes.
 
Mimi’s diamond gleams across my
mother’s neck.  Mom tells me, someday
it will be mine—a piece of my namesake
to carry.  A stone whose provenance I know.

©2009
Concrit Welcome

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22 March 2009 @ 10:14 pm
Experimenting with Karma

I stole a pint glass
from a pub in Delaware,
its body bowed to
the shape of my first
great indiscretion—a crime
so small and spineless—
and drove home puffed, sped,
was stopped, and robbed of one hundred
and sixty dollars.

©2009
Concrit welcome.
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A Hushing

A hushing closes
on AM, compressing time,
pressing on moments

when the lights go ‘pff’
and float away, rise into
night—expanding out—

banding this room in
hazy glows—periwinkle
where the spectrums blur.

Graceless morning grows
in hours I haven’t met, yet,
their noses pressing close

(thinking of windows,
the ways they keep the future
just outside the pane).

Here, though, in this hour
between the evening gone and
morning rising soon

these bloating moments
burst and leak the lights toward day
and drop away, quiet.

©2009
Concrit more than welcome.
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