Saturday, December 27, 2008


i sew myself into my new life,
checking carefully to make sure
the binding tightens.
i'm carefully darning
what remains
of my holes, which are few.
the last person to enter
has exited
and i'm getting more and more
comfortable with reprising my old role -
seamed shut, a beautiful tapestry
with nothing inside,
not even a space
for what could one day be.
i do not leave anything empty,
just sew until there is no space
left for anything,
not even me.
but i don't take up much
time, or room
and i am comfortable without
a home -
i spent ten years searching
for one,
and then three more
learning that
there is no such thing.

Saturday, December 13, 2008

waiting for it to show up

pissing on a stick
did not alleviate
my concern, merely
provoke a period of pausing -
waiting to bleed, or
failing that,
any appointment
to scream out,
what the hell
is wrong with me

inside i feel
something insidious,
really wrong,
much like the first time
before i bled out
what would have been
our child -
the bleeding that
will not come,
the imbalance
of body

and i, yes
am terrified

Tuesday, December 2, 2008


my silence has not been
i am not
stemming words of woe and
holding them inside. it is simply
that they do not exist,
my mind
is too tired to create that kind
of vitriol.

i won't cry through my words,
because i do not cry. i will not say
i do not feel this at all,
surrounding you: i do.

i let it wash
over me like a vague sort
of stain, a dye
given enough washings,
begins to fade.
the parts of me i piece together
are undiluted, raw, freshly mined
and freedom is an empty shell

yes, empty. not damaged, nor destroyed,
or any of the adjectives used
to convey this

think pristine:
an empty ballroom, a
thing unused
echoes through an empty room.

Monday, December 1, 2008

rainy season, the

perpetual sounds of moisture
my shoes squelching through the dark, spongy leaves
the overflow of the eaves
falling against
the walls of my room while cars
plow through puddles and deluge
the sidewalks with gutter water
the patter of raindrops against
the ground,
as silent as the rain is here
i still think of rain as noise, a
soundtrack for a life.
a way to gauge the passing
of time.

wet tracks into the house, a trail
lurking on the floorboards
the impermanent marks
of occupation
you'd never know i lived here.
is not a home, and i act
everything into my four corners,
wait the weather out.
rain gurgling into the gutters,
weeping down the shingles,
leaving rusty tracks behind
caressing the walls
do not touch, that do not
touch me.