Monsters

I have a pet monster
who lives on my bed,
and every night we play.
Sometimes he's red,
sometimes he's blue,
but right now he's a little green.
My monster doesn't like my friends,
but he visits them all the time.
I don't know why.
He's started living in my pockets
so he can see them more,
and the more he sees them,
the bigger he gets.
He won't fit much longer.
He's getting too big
to hide in my pockets.

My monster promises me things.
He talks of dreams,
of would-be's,
of could-have-been's.
And every night
he tugs at my hair.
He doesn't like it when I sleep,
so he tries to keep me awake.
He talks and talks,
like nails on a chalkboard.
Scraping. Scratching.
White knuckles. Bleeding cheeks.
The cold fingers running down my ear.
No dreams, no would-be's.
This is the stuff nightmares are made of.
This is the stuff life is made of.
You can't sleep
when you're numb with fear.

Now he's back in my pocket.
Scraping. Scratching.
Doesn't anyone else hear?
No? I'll keep him a secret, then.
Stifle him, strangle him.
Drown him out.
Lock him in my closet.
But he's too smart for that,
and now he wants revenge.
Claws growing, eyes glowing.
I clench my present to my gut,
I keep it safe.
Then it starts to unravel from the ends.
He weaves the string into tapestries
of if-only's, of cannot-be's,
of should-have-been's.
I can keep him out of now,
but he gets to have then.

I have a pet monster
who lives in my head.
He's a bully. A tumor.
He's growing.
He doesn't promise me things.
Not anymore. There are no dreams,
would-be's, or could-have-been's.
There's nothing coherent
about my monster now.
My thoughts are blurry and muffled.
There's no more sting.
Just an echo.
My monster is starting to win.

I used to live alone with empty pockets.
I had no would-be's, no should-have-been's.
Then my monster came,
and all my friends ran away.

Facets

I
Crystal glass shows everything and nothing all at once.
To be a crystal you would have to have dark and light sides and every color in between,
and while you hold all these colors and ribbons you must, 
refract,
and then must combine and appear to be a single shade of clear and white.

II
So you think you can write with blue and black on lines so pink and white.
You think you are brilliant because that hundredth time those two words felt different, 
than the ninety-nine times before.
But you are scared of white so you write on yellow.
Yellow is much less threatening and when your mind loses track it seems you feel less reckless 
on the soft forgiving yellow than the cold starched white.

III
you think you know grace and its relationship with dignity 
but that is far too intimate for you to be a part of. 
Pink satin wind in your face.
You can generate wind that is beautiful and worth watching, 
and that is a gift.
One in a million but also one of a million, at once,
clean lines and perfection, 
never is enough.

IV
You can weep and be a thousand people, 
the faces unseen and as yet unimagined.
You can wear what does not belong to you 
and wear it well. 
You can feel emotion not yours and while that seems
somehow unholy, it is also right,
to give voice to the thousands left unspoken.

V 
you can be soft and know how to act and dress and represent. 
Bake soft chocolate brown with a dash of rich auburn, red.
Decorate the house, the haven, 
so that others will love it and be invited to stay.
Each day, Each mess a different aspect of joy,
in sharing that piece of warm rose colored glass.

VI
You can stand tall and read arithmetic in german,
as though it were spanish in english.
You can read to enjoy and to learn and to disprove and argue.
Be the perfect child until you turn, 
and are an adult strong willed, strong minded, 
strong.

VII
Maturity is not always something to fight but to relish in as well. 
When you were small you were silent but aware
and now you are not small, 
less silent, and not just aware but voiced.

VIII
You search for power and love and life and happiness. 
Why so sad?  It is coming to you, 
it is just slower than you like. 
You are in such a hurry to grow up, 
slow down, 
enjoy the dance and court the person you want to be.
She’s worth it.

Where I'm From

I am from leashes

from the Lysol and Febreze

only one person has.

I am from leaves

like zippers

that could only zip down

over by the yellow handles.

I am from chocolate milk and guitars,

            from Disney on New Year’s with the dogs.

I am from beds with hiding spots

            with animal cracker curtains and my sisters’ toys.

From the crannies too small to be hidden in.

I’m from movies with swords and spears,

            and 90s boy bands’ songs

            with words my sisters made me know.

I’m from Wawa and Hoy’s,

the good shops left untouched

by the encroaching clothing industry.

And the old ones that have been touched,

touched and broken and replaced

by the encroaching clothing industry.

I am from the beauty of pain,

the masochistic beauty in death

and blizzards that turn trees into their own catacombs.

I am from staying up at night

feeling the pain I had no business feeling.

I am from dry spells where I say I’m happy

and jump to the worst of all conclusions.

And I am from happy solitude, truly happy.

I am from blaming scapegoats and forgiving them

because it’s cathartic if I can love the scapegoat

and myself, too.

About Madge

1.      Uses her right foot like a tail: leopard to be exact

2.      Cries at every movie

3.      Even the ones so stupidly dumb that you see the sappy ending coming just from glancing briefly at the poster

4.      Loves the freedom of running

5.      Can only run for thirty second intervals

6.      Can sew surprisingly neat even stiches in just about anything: don’t expect them to serve an actual purpose

7.      Believes in fairies

8.      But not Santa Claus

9.      Desperately wants to become a real person but is unsure how to go about that

10.  Never wears matching clothes

11.  Not even on my birthday

12.  Is a brilliant writer: much better than me; hears poetry when other people talk

13.  Would probably be horrified were she to read this

14.  Has a terrible fear of ball shaped objects

15.  Tried every sport her parents could think

16.  Refuses to learn vocabulary but loves to argue with extra big words  

17.  Loves the rain: it’s a blessing after all

18.  She always reminded me of a snowflake

19.  She never liked the snow

20.  Once she pretended to be a kitty cat for a whole day

21.  But she gave up when she couldn’t bear to harm a mouse

                       22. Knows she doesn’t belong anymore, but she can’t leave or she’ll lose him

Invocation

Help me, Muse. Make me a master weaver; give me yarn to wind into a royal web of tales. Give me words that drip like the icicles hanging from Christmas lights in February. Words that burn the paper they’re on once read. Words that endure like old boulders, like scattered, defective, misshapen misfits lying in the foundations of lost buildings.

Give me a voice that can tremble and burst, Muse. A voice that creaks like the door you have to sneak through. A voice that suffocates under its own whirling, whipping dreams. A voice that flies through the teeming mountains. A voice that dries souls.

Give me notes that can darken the sky and will the snow down from it. Notes that pop like wet fireworks in the cul-de-sac. Notes that laugh like cats in the bathtub.

Muse, let the words in my bed imprint themselves on my brain for everyone else to see. Let the morning light engulf the tapping keys after a night wasted well. Let the sunbaked waves climb the frigid mountains.

Muse, remind me of how to sleep in less time. Remind me of those streets where my soul was born. Remind me of the wild fibers of detached comfort. Remind me of the unraveling bodies. Remind me of the beautiful melodies, the unfaltering truth behind those words, Muse. Remind me.