skeleton funeral

i don't need a man anymore
i have my children
i can raise them
i have my bills
i can pay them

i can manage my grief
i can heal my body
i can validate myself
i can love and give love
i have friends when i'm lonely
i can process the memory
of my mother's bones in my arms
without obliteration

but i have forgotten
how to shed tears

then sometimes you're here
your flesh is so warm
your bones are so strong
your chest is so wide
your drum is so fierce
slowly, slowly
my heart may be learning
to open


  • Ashley Elizabeth Wednesday, 05 September 2012

    The diamonds across the street are blinding me I c...

    The diamonds across the street are blinding meI cannot see the other side of the lake and I know you are therewaiting and watching and wanting me to find a wayto the other side but I can’t and you know I can’tYet they keep shining, hitting the sun and their fragmentskeep blinding my eyes and I cannot see yoursgreen and dark like pines at midnight.

  • Imogen Tuesday, 04 September 2012

    Reading Georges Bataille on my professors recommen...

    Reading Georges Bataille on my professors recommendation, I can discussthe abstract, the intellectual, thea priori observations of eroticism anddeath.Ask anyone who has ever said that they would die for love, who idolised poor, passionate,silly and immature Romeo and Juliet.Ask anyone who ever thought they could die from the lack of love, not just poets and songwriters, not just the plain, plump girlslonging, sighing, swooning,fal.l, fall, falling with no-one to catchthem.La Belle, La Belle, with nomercy on her soft, red, lips.We seek that which is strange, estranged,the other, the uncaught, the taboo to break.Why should not death, to poets and lovers, not be the ultimate embrace, the promised love,the bridegroom whose embrace will neverlet go.What is the ultimate in abandon?How can it not be thatwhich is his.

  • Exitonpch Monday, 03 September 2012

    Tomorrow Open my front door, cross the crab-grass...

    TomorrowOpen my front door, cross the crab-grass lawn and narrow street,Crest Avenue, as though it was the edge of the living world,hop the chain link fence beneath dark green cypress,scamper over the broad emerald meadowsthen called the 17th and 11th fairwaysand there we'd find piles of extra dirt that no longer fit into freshly dug graves.Games to play: dirt clod wars (with the occasional pebble or chunkof sod); find the oldest gravemarker (something from the 1880's);jump across a newly interned resident; hide and seek; peek-a-BOO.Golfers frequently shanked 4 irons into the graveyard;we'd find the dimpled white balls on our explorations and pretendthey were eggs from some alien creatureor maybe a seagullbefore polishing them up like alabaster gemsto try to sell them back to the notorious cheapskates who strode the fairwaysin awful tartan slacks and the reek of cigars.Especially as dusk snuck in with the rolling fog and the fog horn lowed its sonorous warning like a giant metronome, every minute,to meandering ships that might wander too close to the hidden shore,we'd stare upwards as the tip of the flagpole disappeared, and nearby the sodium lampposts would flare a futile yellow into the gloom,while pigeons cooed their lost love songsamid the old, dripping wet, grey pines. Thereabove the bones and cherry wood coffinsour voices might drop into silence but we could still breathe and laughas though tomorrow held no meaningwhich, come to think of it,it didn't much. On occasion we'd vacate while the hearse circled the road and womenin black strode clutching bouquets, kneeling, falling away.We didn't have tomorrowto worry about, even when the markerdidn't go past a month: Here Liessomeone we didn't knowgone before tomorrowas though it never happened.

  • Jessa Marie Monday, 03 September 2012

    17. rise you seek to dehumanize, to euthanize, to ...

    17. riseyou seek to dehumanize, toeuthanize, toburn down everything i amwoman boricua poor iam worthless, orso you would like me to believedivide and conquer, you say, nowonder you celebrate rape culture andblame us for being putas. sotell me, man behind the curtain,does it please you to see me paraded about, a silly little fat girlbrown skin, wordsthick like my thighs and waiting toemergeyou would love nothing more than to put me in a pile of dead leaves and light thematch, see your little problem disappear in a cloud ofsmoke (the stench of stereotypes is a sweet perfume toyou)but we rise, even if our cages areskeletal our souls aredurablewe undulate and wailnever silent neverunbroken (even if wehave felt that way at times)

  • Krista Sunday, 02 September 2012

    my mother puts on a leather jacket, the inside cov...

    my mother puts on a leatherjacket, the insidecovered with tiny needles thatlatch onto her skin andshe can never take it offi am wracked with guilteven though the skeleton man convinced her to put it oni am hysterical and scaredas my dad tries to break downthe door to mine and my sister’sroom the window is boarded andzombies surround the housemy dad isn’t my dad anymoreno matter how many timesi yell for him to stop poundingat the door and save usand why am i in this room?always trapped in the sameroom i had when i was thirteenthis is the room the werewolf brokein and dragged my sister away,the room i could only stick my armout a crack as the house sankinto a lake that never existedthe same room we put our mattressestogether to make a trampolineand turned up the radio to makethe rats and mold and car accidents,of a real world, disappear

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