Plague Years

Contusions, her thighs
And calves, tops of
Her feet;
Muddy and spotted
With sunflower color
And wine stained hills.

He believed in tolerence.
She could only believe
This was the practice of it,
how much she could take.

Michael, Saint Of Insecurity

I wanted to cut off my
Breasts,
Thighs.
Michael said
"Babe.
An hourglass is just fine,
No matter how much time
is in it."

I Won't Be Famous 'Til I'm Dead

The kind of poet, the soul, the girl.
She worked backwards.

Her teachers always told her,
"Never start with the title, write what you feel."

She never listened,
Of course she wouldn't;

What did they know
About creativity?

About the process?
Nothing, At all.

The evenings she worked on her titles,
at night built up her scars,

But she'd never suceed,
Not really, not yet.

The critics didn't agree
'Til she was gone, of course.

"What a soul."
"What a fresh new voice."

The Stamp, The Finality.

It was as if I were a letter,
Away! He sent me,
Mailed me to Mumbai or Darfur, or Bogata;
When I arrived, Stamped Express
(He couldn't do it fast enough)
Shredded me into mulch, packing peanuts
You, You, You,
You mail me away, marked "wrong address"
You are my home no longer-
back to the dark where i came,
to the bins of solace and
untouched breasts,
return to sender, ha.
from then to now, I am disowned, I know.

Cake Batter

So certain to contain me,
Be sure that the coffin you pick is
Air tight and
Nailed shut.
Because, Baby,
I
Will
Come back for you;
Take you with me if I could.

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