free
Places. Where we laughed â
63
The Mad Girls climb the wet hill,
breathe the sharp air through sick-green lungs.
The Wildest One wanders off like an old cow
and finds a steaming breast inside a footprint in the snow .
She slips it into her glove, holds it close like a darling.
At night, she suckles the lavender tit, still warm
in her hard little hands. She drapes it over her heart--
the closest she will ever come to a Woman Thing.
The girl sleeps on her right side with the breast
tucked between her legs. Her eyes flutter like a rocked doll.
She dreams of Before the Father, when her body
was smooth as a crab, her fingers
tip-toe soft. Outside her bedroom, the Lonesome Boys
hid in trees to watch The Father lift her gown.
Before It Happened, her mouth was a shining crown,
her hair moved like a hungry dog.
In the morning, the girl is who she is again.
Her hair, a soft black brick, her body held together
by hammers. The breast is shriveled up . Gone cold
in her lap. A death-blue fish with one stone eye.
64
Girls, they tell tales of woe before their beds are minced in kind words and dirty tricks. Listen to their hands. They talk. Whatâs been torn from their bones, the old ones at lazy angles? I want to remember their faces. Those girls I used to/wished to be/wished Iâd been. Those girls; all them girls and their dreams. I want to remember their faces , bone and tissue, pride in ridges unattached, left charged in meaning something more. Fuck abstractions in this state. The world is not ending. Adjust.
The specifics of my face are easier to bear than the specifics of our claim to this, the ridges, their bone and tissue , blood, broken. Dead. Yes. The old ones. Known? No. Wanted? Yes. Known? No. But, yes. I know their faces. Smile over ridge an y d ay. My dadâs dad, another ghost on a northern sidewalk, somewhere.
Tell me, do they begin? Hard-pressed for eternity, they dig for more bone . Itâs different now. My mom says so. She would know. Sheâs been here longer. Her mom knew too. We wouldâve gotten along, my mom says. We do. I talk to her as much as possible because she knows where Iâm going with this.
65
When a man tells u he is different from the rest, read the book of Exodus in ur quiet time . . . this will train ur ankles, feet. Will teach you how to flee. This is important.
When you let them stomp blood out of your belly, cry yourself a âworth itâ song. Repeat it in the shower, never mind the wreckage pooling at your feet.
When he side swipes you, make your eyes a cracked windshield . The railroad track holding your insides inside will become rusty . . . do not worry, he has already taken all of the electricity out of you. You cannot hurt anyone.
after the initial pain, train your body to immediately stop loving.
Do not take back all yo u have give n . When you re- wrap your lungs, heart, spleen..they donât taste the same . . . only prisoners and war veterans like resealable women. Give yourself anew. every time. When he breaks you, put the OxyCotin under ur tongue. Nothing in you should be refurbished.
Do not lose sleep over him. Do not read the e-mails. Do not play Anita Baker. Do not wear his hoodie. Do not tell anyone of the burning in you. Do not pretend he is who you want him to be. Focus on yourself. Focus on your self. Lie. Always lie and say you have never been stitched back together.
When a man tells you he is different from the rest, read the book of Exodus in your quiet time. He will sing u an ap o logy. L ou d , like the wail of a infant that has not yet been burped. Pat him on the back. Simple.
66
Steve, Melantha and I begin to walk downtown.
I anxiously bid goodbye to the poison now
weakening in my body, for I have neglected to add
another layer to keep sobriety at bay.
     Sobriety is the enemy â it is more physically kind but in my destabilized state of mind, it is the
Places. Where we laughed â
63
The Mad Girls climb the wet hill,
breathe the sharp air through sick-green lungs.
The Wildest One wanders off like an old cow
and finds a steaming breast inside a footprint in the snow .
She slips it into her glove, holds it close like a darling.
At night, she suckles the lavender tit, still warm
in her hard little hands. She drapes it over her heart--
the closest she will ever come to a Woman Thing.
The girl sleeps on her right side with the breast
tucked between her legs. Her eyes flutter like a rocked doll.
She dreams of Before the Father, when her body
was smooth as a crab, her fingers
tip-toe soft. Outside her bedroom, the Lonesome Boys
hid in trees to watch The Father lift her gown.
Before It Happened, her mouth was a shining crown,
her hair moved like a hungry dog.
In the morning, the girl is who she is again.
Her hair, a soft black brick, her body held together
by hammers. The breast is shriveled up . Gone cold
in her lap. A death-blue fish with one stone eye.
64
Girls, they tell tales of woe before their beds are minced in kind words and dirty tricks. Listen to their hands. They talk. Whatâs been torn from their bones, the old ones at lazy angles? I want to remember their faces. Those girls I used to/wished to be/wished Iâd been. Those girls; all them girls and their dreams. I want to remember their faces , bone and tissue, pride in ridges unattached, left charged in meaning something more. Fuck abstractions in this state. The world is not ending. Adjust.
The specifics of my face are easier to bear than the specifics of our claim to this, the ridges, their bone and tissue , blood, broken. Dead. Yes. The old ones. Known? No. Wanted? Yes. Known? No. But, yes. I know their faces. Smile over ridge an y d ay. My dadâs dad, another ghost on a northern sidewalk, somewhere.
Tell me, do they begin? Hard-pressed for eternity, they dig for more bone . Itâs different now. My mom says so. She would know. Sheâs been here longer. Her mom knew too. We wouldâve gotten along, my mom says. We do. I talk to her as much as possible because she knows where Iâm going with this.
65
When a man tells u he is different from the rest, read the book of Exodus in ur quiet time . . . this will train ur ankles, feet. Will teach you how to flee. This is important.
When you let them stomp blood out of your belly, cry yourself a âworth itâ song. Repeat it in the shower, never mind the wreckage pooling at your feet.
When he side swipes you, make your eyes a cracked windshield . The railroad track holding your insides inside will become rusty . . . do not worry, he has already taken all of the electricity out of you. You cannot hurt anyone.
after the initial pain, train your body to immediately stop loving.
Do not take back all yo u have give n . When you re- wrap your lungs, heart, spleen..they donât taste the same . . . only prisoners and war veterans like resealable women. Give yourself anew. every time. When he breaks you, put the OxyCotin under ur tongue. Nothing in you should be refurbished.
Do not lose sleep over him. Do not read the e-mails. Do not play Anita Baker. Do not wear his hoodie. Do not tell anyone of the burning in you. Do not pretend he is who you want him to be. Focus on yourself. Focus on your self. Lie. Always lie and say you have never been stitched back together.
When a man tells you he is different from the rest, read the book of Exodus in your quiet time. He will sing u an ap o logy. L ou d , like the wail of a infant that has not yet been burped. Pat him on the back. Simple.
66
Steve, Melantha and I begin to walk downtown.
I anxiously bid goodbye to the poison now
weakening in my body, for I have neglected to add
another layer to keep sobriety at bay.
     Sobriety is the enemy â it is more physically kind but in my destabilized state of mind, it is the
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