t h e d e a d o f w i n t e r

June 1, 2012

t h e d e a d o f w i n t e r

i.

Hope is beautiful.

It hangs in the air
above our heads,
spinning, shining
like sunlight, or
a piece of crystal,
dancing in its
aurora borealis,
shape-shifter way,
never quite holding
still for long enough
to make sure it’s real.

         
But we go on

                            and on

                                                and on,

                                                                        not caring.

ii.

The problem with fear is that it begets more fear.
The problem with sorrow is that it begets more sorrow.

iii.

A small kiss lingers on my cheek.
A snowdrop,
a tear.
They string diamond necklaces down my face.
How melodramatic,
how sublime.
(How pitiful,
how pathetic.)

iv.

You see, I have dragon’s teeth,

but you’ll have to kill me to raise your army.

         
So tell me to stop hoping.

ode to artemis

November 13, 2011
published in on the cusp's magazine "hunt" Autumn 2012

ode to artemis

lady artemis:

the wild beasts of today are no calydonian boars,

but pretty pop-culture vampires with shiny teeth,

fresh from makeup or their tiny diva dressing rooms. 

instead of the ceryneian hind, we have

werewolves with stars in their eyes brandishing

coca-cola logos that scream, “this is happiness, this is happiness!” 

ogres and giants still ravage innocent towns,

until they forget their next line, and the set lights go on,

and the director reminds them, “roar.  all you do is roar.” 

maiden huntress:

our hunters prance about in faux-metal armor,

casting their ragdoll eyes and sloppy smiles at anyone

who might be willing to take their picture. 

the orion of this age is some pre-teen one-hit wonder

actor/singer/pop-star who even has his own tv show

and always walks around with his hands ready on his hips,

frantically looking over his shoulder because he never knows

if he should strike a pose now, or now; like this, or no, like this.

dear sister:

today, all our girls are damsels who flounce and pout

and pine for some hero to complete them –

they fling themselves as shoddy sacrifices

upon any adonis look-alike with a tacky dollar-store costume

that’s already wearing away at the elbows and knees.

true goddess of the hunt:

the gods we worship are billionaire movie stars.  brand-name sponsors

serve as their blessed ambrosia, applause and canned laughter

their most sacred nectar.  their enormous faces expand

across mile-long billboards; their names transcend any natural death.

o, artemis, divine and perfect:

let us remember mortality. 

save us from this action-packed

comedy-horror-romance-adventure-thriller

sub-reality in which we now exist.

this pulse is just a reflex

September 28, 2011

published in Westminster College's journal "ellipsis" Spring 2012

this pulse is just a reflex

the man at the front of the room, the one with the funny legs,

crab-walks from side to side, his back to us, with stilted, aluminum steps,

scribbling the notation for conic sections and riemann sums, sketching

the curves of cosines with a lover’s care, but all we can see are his legs;

he stands on his heels so his knees don’t buckle

because his bones were twisted by blacksmiths, mistaken

for yet-to-be ironwork railing rungs that they attached

with ligaments made of copper, eggshell-thin.

outside my window, the distant whirr of cars on the highway

is the same sound as the soft hushing-rushing of felt against slate,

and if I shift my body, my joints all make small chalkboard sounds

as they click into place, imitating chiseled white ‘x’s and ‘y’s;

I am made of bronze or well-tempered tin,

my eyes forgotten in the midst of remedial metal

splints for arms and legs, smooth steel mechanisms for heart and hands,

and intricate clicking gears for the best of brains–

we might all be hephaestus’s automata, beautiful the way

calculus and clockwork are, and nothing more.

pomegranate seeds

December 24, 2010

pomegranate seeds

there are days

that go by

like stepping stones,

when the sunsets

are all chemically engineered,

when we don’t know

our heartbeats

from the rest,

and we listen

to these tired thoughts.

but then comes the first snowfall.

we no longer need

these forced smiles,

the icicles

are seventh chords

hanging from rooftops,

we exhale

and our breaths echo back,

and our ghosts are all chased away

until the sky is dark and clear

with crystal constellations.

may love always be winter for you.

Skyes, Blu

April 14, 2010

Skyes, Blu

Blu Skyes never cared to be known. 

My name should be Icarus, she said, tripping her pen onto the sidewalk below.  She leapt down from the tree at a height that would have made most people’s bones rattle in their skin. 

I stepped lightly to the ground from the bottommost branch.  “What do you mean?” 

He was such a failure, she replied. 

I wanted to tell her, “You’re no failure,” but all I said was, “I have to go.” 

Blu would have drowned the kittens of the Cheshire cat not because they would’ve died anyway, but because she would have been jealous. 

She and I were in some garden when she said, Reach me a rose, will you?  Their stems remind me of love and The Great Gatsby. 

“We all live in somebody’s future, Blu,” I told her. 

But I worry about the ones whose pasts we have already abused.   

If you were glass or if you were stone, Blu would rub you smooth, and you would shine.  Me, she never touched. 

The train lumbered along like some subterranean beast as we waited to cross the tracks. 

False face must hide what the false heart doth know, she quoted.  That’s Shakespeare.

I wanted to ask, “What have you done that you need to hide?” but I could only nod and add, “Macbeth.” 

What happened to those blueberry eyes, Blu Skyes?  That raspberry smile?  Did your faith take them with her when she left?  Or was it just a matter of time?

She skipped stones in the brook as I sat and watched.  Far too similar are kites and cranes.  Far too different are birds and planes. 

If I had had the courage, I would have demanded, “Tell me what you mean!  I may not understand, but at least I can try.”  Instead, “Who came up with that one?”

For once, her eyes were not wasps, but water. Her voice was not ruthless, but soft, soft, soft. I did.  

It was a sea that threatened her.  I had always stood with her, always ankle deep, but always behind her, and she would never know. 

I pictured us tightrope-walking along the thin line of our hopes in the dying sunlight.  If I ever glanced down, Blu would whisper, Don’t look at it too long, or you’ll realize it doesn’t exist.

If I were brave, I would have dared those spider-web dreams to disappear.  If I were brave, I would have pieced us back together if we fell.  If I were brave, I would have spoken up whenever I had had something to say.  If I were brave, I would have done what Daedalus never could.

I would have saved us both.