Poems

It moves like the small jolt

of a stall—a too-quick-clutch-and-not-enough-gas-why-can’t-I-do-this

stall.

The final lurch puffs a tease

of what the heater had to offer;

the fan’s laugh dies while

the engine halts—grumpy, haughty, finicky clunk.

Release the necessary

Expletivesighscream.
(Turn the key.)

***

A trick of the light—
sunlight pierces windowpane to ask

who's that, who’s there?

A trick of the light—
infinitely varied:
conceived, conceiving, receding;

stepping, stopped,

bounding, crashing, falling,

bloated, flat, skinned, skinless, bone, ash.

A trick of the light—

moments from darkness and silence,

decisions and truths hashed and rehashed

declare themselves unknowable.

A trick of the light—
composition: elusive, location: nonexistent/miscellaneous, center: uncentered;

written in stone is only their reality, their relation:

mother, daughter, sister, aunt, cousin, friend.

A trick of the light—
sunlight pierces windowpane to ask

who's that, who’s there?

A trick of the light—

In the fading sun, declare me

unknown, unknowable, unseeable, intangible, invisible:

translucent.

***

Strange Gospels by Cynthia Cruz from The Glimmering Room

Woke in a drool of ribbons and spit.

Lace lost someplace on the body.

Call Billy collect

Off the side of the highway.

And I will

Wait in girlhood

Panties and Billy's black

Leather lace ups

In this glass phone booth

Forever.

Aimless (adj.) Without purpose or direction

Around finals week, a month off from school sounds amazing; the higher education gods have finally taken pity on your mortal soul and decided to release it, if only for a while. But after Christmas and after (an admittedly non-celebrational) new year's, there isn't much to do or accomplish. I try to read but I get upset; my book choices are not light as I'm in the middle of A Brief History of Misogyny: The World's Oldest Prejudice by Jack Holland. He is thorough and the history he recounts is equal parts infuriating and saddening. Usually, the sadness overwhelms the anger, as Jack obviously agrees with me and being aggressive toward an unyielding, unchangeable past is nonsensical. I lament the lives of women (from now and yesterday) while having little actual means to aid them.

My house, in its moderately secluded state, leads me to believe that I could scream as loud as I can, and no one would hear me. (That's not an invitation to murder me; please do not--I repeat do not--murder me.) But my disconnect is not inspiring. I started writing another blogpost, which sits as a draft because I now hate its lack of inspiration or thesis. I could scream without being heard and if I did scream, know that I would be yelling "Can you hear me?" and "Please help! I'm useless and don't know what to do!" (Both pathetic and desperate--getting that phrase tattooed on me--but both very real.)

It is in this time frame, when my family is not here, when I have nowhere to go or be, when I have no friends to see, that I feel hollow. During the semester, I place my entire being into the clubs, activities, and classes I partake in, but after the semester ends, I have no project or book or email or idea to let devour me and, as a result, the self I would apply seems to disappear.

Woo! Look there I go!

While it is excellent to feel so wholeheartedly consumed that I my entire self is occupied, the abrupt end of this privilege is a system shock. So here I am, my brain slowly turning to mush as I continually ask myself to engage intellectually without the pressure of a deadline.

***

Am I loud and clear, or am I breaking up?

Am I still your charm, or am I just bad luck?

Are we getting closer, or are we just getting more lost?

***

What you write when you don't know what to write: shit. 

***

It is necessary

to curl tightly under

the covers,

create a small patch of warmth.

Tighten your muscles, keep

the cold at bay.

Wake up exhausted despite the 

blankets

hats

sweaters and

shivering

you have employed to keep you warm.

Fight

for warmth and breath and life,

enjoying the morning hours

as reward. Do not rise.

Your nocturnal fight has

granted you a 

small, self-sized space of snug.

Your only misstep will be to

move. To venture a pinky toe

into the chill; all is undone. 

You are undone; 

Burn it.