Things That I Am Obligated To Keep

things that i am obligated to keep

things i do not need and cannot remember how to want; what is want, how do i feel that again? a longing for something possibly, or no, not that ache in your chest that comes at vague times with a sudden-slow fierceness brought on by songs, sounds, the passing hand of time. could want be something that does not hurt? stuffed animals & dolls. i can remember when i got them and the memories associated- i am obligated to keep them for future generations to reference, ruin. obligated to everyone who indulged me and bought skunks, kangaroos, elephants for my zoo. an exhibit of childish want, (even then, for too much too much too much) borderline avarice. or possibly? for times like these when i try to get rid of the past and instead am struck by the comfort of a worn-through ear, passing through my fingertips like silk.

things that demand to be shouted

A POEM IN ALL CAPS.

I AM AFRAID SOMETIMES THAT GOD WILL LEAVE ME ON MY OWN, SAY

THIS IS WHAT I GAVE YOU AND LOOK AT WHAT YOU’VE DONE WITH IT-

NOTHING.

HOW DO YOU THINK YOU DESERVE THIS LIFE WHEN YOU DON’T TRY?

I WILL NOT HELP YOU IF YOU REFUSE TO HELP YOURSELF.

THERE IS A WORD SOMETIMES THAT I SAY AND IT IS BELIEF

HE THINKS I MEAN WHAT I SAY BUT JUST BECAUSE YOU SAID IT DOESN’T MEAN THAT IT’S TRUE.

I DON’T BELIEVE IN THIS ANYMORE.

IF THERE IS A LIFE AFTER THIS ONE, LET ME BE. LET ME BE. LET ME BE.

SOMETHING OTHER THAN THIS, A MISERY UNSPOKEN OR A CAGE UNMADE IN A DIFFERENT SHAPE.

COULD I BE ANYTHING OTHER THAN WHAT I AM?

IN A LIFE NOT OF THIS BODY,

SOMEWHERE AFTER THE FACT

AND ALL THE ENDINGS HAPPENED IN A WAY THAT WAS BEARABLE

GOD CALLED ME UP ON THE PHONE SAYING WOULD YOU MIND?

IF I LEFT FOR A LITTLE WHILE AND DIDN’T PROMISE TO COME BACK WOULD YOU STILL LOVE ME?

SO I SAID TO GOD:

THIS NOTHINGNESS IS CALLING MY NAME IN THE ABSENCE OF ANYTHING ELSE

NOT SO MUCH CALLING AS LEAVING A MESSAGE ON THE ANSWERING MACHINE OF YOUR HEART

AND IN YOUR ABSENCE I WILL MAKE DEMANDS I KNOW YOU CANNOT FULFILL

IF ONLY TO MAKE MY PRESENCE KNOWN

NOT UNDERSTOOD BUT HEARD AT LEAST, SO THAT I COULD HAVE A REASON FOR YOUR LEAVING.

GOD DIDN’T SAY ANYTHING BACK

AND I THINK HE WAS ALREADY GONE.

pretty isn't everything, you punk ass (it's not that we're not ugly. we're ugly)

love

you are not pretty.

you

have been told that since the day that you

were

born. there is no beauty in the reality of things the way that you look

at

them. you are not art to be admired in your royal majesty gilded in gold and roses like

the

old masters in their Renaissance painting portraits of made up women and men all stiff in their high white collars and jewels wrapped around their throats, the

beginnings

of what we began to think of as beauty how we define pretty that elegance and rich overabundance of pale, thin characterless faceless portraits and

two dimen sional people gold brushed and sparkling. you are not pretty when people think of pretty, see that perfect and then look at you only to see how you aren’t but they don’t look past the

ends

of their noses and it’s hard to tell when you’re looking only an inch past your face i think they can’t see past their own imperfections and how they don’t fit the pretty either because honestly nobody’s pretty

of

all the people in this world how many do you think would actually say they think that they’re pretty? because we’re not. it’s not that we’re ugly. we’re just not pretty, and that’s ugly enough on its own.

everything

is about pretty so what i’m trying to say is that you’re not pretty but not in the way someone sneers and says you’re not pretty like it’s supposed to be mean or something, you just already knew so why even bother saying it? we’re all ugly. you’re not pretty. i mean that in the way where you not being pretty isn’t because i don’t like you you just have to read between the lines so i can tell you that to me pretty isn’t worth much but i think

you were at the beginning and ends of everything

i ever wrote when i said that love was beautiful.

swamp thing

i am a lake girl, no sea-salt-spray-sunshine waves for me. no ocean pretty. no coming out of the water smelling like salt + love, tanned lines from sunshine. ocean girls get tan. lake girls get dirty, down in the freshwater mud swamp-thing swimming with the fishes. us swamp-girls, lake-girls, we know how to fish + hunt + swim. know how to live on our own without coming back over again: there’s no waves here. we ain’t kissing anybody. not afraid of a little dirt, going barefoot through the tall grasses down to the water catch some worms a little bug or two a lizard if you’re lucky. not afraid of telling somebody what they’re doing wrong, ‘cause if you do it wrong in a lake swamp water you’re gonna get killed. lake girls know green mossy waters + smooth rocks underneath your feet- little fish not busy in your own private corner. this ain’t nobody’s house but yours and neither is your body. life’s not all smiles or roses. we know brambles, tangles, hooked fishing lines, nets, daisy crowns of cattails + wildflowers. we’ve had to make do with what we have we wouldn’t have it any other way. ocean girls get poems written about them, their long hair blowing in the pretty sea breeze, coming out of their waters like aphrodite on the sea foam with feet on the dashboard + a song behind their lips. selkies, mermaids, pretty pretty things. not like us, lake girls in the middle of the country not looking for the edges of anything but the bottoms, seeing how deep we can go. us with our scissor chopped dyed hair short so it wouldn’t get in the way, still coming out of the water in old swimsuits like rebirth the way it really happened: out of the mud, dirty, messy, real, trailing lilies behind in a bridal train. married to the waters with two solid feet on the ground + a bouquet of hooks digging into skin. there’s no sunlight where the swamp things grow but they don’t need it, used to living with a little stability, a lot of water. no rushing here just stagnant puddles muddy marshy things, us lake girls lying about in the weeds because the ground has fingers too + once they catch you there’s no going back. the mud never comes out from beneath your nails.

thirteen through twenty three

i am tired to the bone after nine hours one two three four (back) no, more tired than that, through bone five six seven eight (straight) tired like the way a monarch flies nine ten eleven twelve (face) the same path because it doesn’t know thirteen fourteen fifteen sixteen (smile) any other way to go. moving in circles seventeen eighteen nineteen twenty (L) around and around until we have to stop twenty one twenty two (now hold 14) dizzy from the exhaustion of it. one two three four five six seven (still) how many times can we keep going eightnineteneleventwelvethirteen until it hurts more to stop? fourteen (almost) twenty three. now run it all again.

oh, maudie

there was a dead bird at the bottom of the cage this morning, metal bars clenched around it and the little body so frail- we didn’t see it coming at all, her neck so twisted and legs all curled in around herself with a last breath no no no i didn’t see it happen but i saw the feathers left on the floor and the hole in the backyard, i didn’t see how it happened but i could tell you how it went, burying her (smaller than my hand, she fit just perfect) into ground while my mother cried more for her finches than she ever did for me. she left a baby behind squawking in the nest saying mama where’d you go mama please and i couldn’t help crying against the metal bars because even if i said baby it’ll be alright with time, but you gotta know she ain’t coming back that little bird wouldn’t understand me so i said it anyway, held his mama’s body in my hands even if i didn’t see the before i was there for the after to hear his little cries filling up the empty room and the echo of not coming back, not coming back, not coming.