i used to fall asleep to music boxes and my mother’s hands through my hair.
the first spell i taught my goddaughter
was that everything is
love.
my father used to hum all
around the house and narrate what he
was doing in a funny way .
he used to sing to me.
my favorite place
is tallest in a room
full of men
and just suddenly
commanding them
I used to practice lines
in front of my mirror,
sure to sometimes catch the
smirk, try to control
it.
2.
I used to sing
fairy tales to my closet
to see if the curtains would move.
1.
you were given a choice.
you chose this road
first, then the
present.
become an alcoholic to
find a higher power.
meditate occasionally to
see how well it suits you.
in between,
fill the emptiness with Oreos,
coffee,
a smoking habit you detest
but gives your fingers something to
do when you’re speaking anxiously
in public,
when the caffeine is rearranging your
tongue into metaphors and you
need a moment of pause,
clarifying to the audience
with a descriptor you
previously forgot
and the story: winding,
inexplicably always
out of order.
run a 5K every three weeks
to give yourself a mission:
get back in shape,
hone your vision of
yourself.
bathe everyday.
tell the cat you love her
and pet her for an extra few minutes
before you walk for hours
to lose those new found vowels
completely.
pluck out your roots and
dead ends hiding
in a stealth spot.
begin a practice of voyeurism.
sit comfortably and
file your nails into sharp points.
lean into them.
write everything down.
start ordering your steak rare:
inhale the lost veal,
the lost zeal of an entire feedlot;
the scent of plasma and cud.
devour a a squealing colony
without remorse.
give cannibalism a chance.
you’re talking to yourself in public again.
the looks from the other patrons
don’t bother you.
you remember them with skinned knees on
bathroom tile; your stomach in
velvet knots,
your obsessive purge.
you remember them peering at you
in courtrooms,
you remember them in handcuffs,
in shackles,
side eyes from jealous brides
as you make a scene at the open
bar.
it’s not the groom you want
or ceremony you despise,
it’s the bride’s eyes.
the way you’ve stolen and
groveled afterwards.
the way they held
onto those wrongs and their
condescending pats on the back
withdrawn.
how you’ve managed to
survive it all with gratitude,
without much impact,
you’ve suddenly risen
to their ranks.
get your wisdom teeth removed
and then
cut them into daggers.
check out Home Depot,
ask for “industrial size”
ignore all the
are you ok ?
you’re muttering again.
read the directions.
this stuff is toxic.
don’t get it on your eyelids.
press the bone back into your sockets,
flick the canines,
gotta be solid.
smile:
you’re still celibate.
you’re still hungry;
avaricious,
less slovenly from
all the exercise,
less addled than before
and armored like the night.
go back to the diner.
lick your plate.
click your tongue.
you showed them how
starvation’s done,
you showed them how to roam.
you put your money where your
mouth is: glued into
your gums.
ring the alarm and
show them home.
your mouth is lined with
homemade knives, and you’re
wafting noxious with each
breath you begin to teach
them how to
move on instinct.
you begin to salivate
with virile.
you begin to chew more
loudly.
Miss? you ok, Miss?
now that your dysphagia’s
done, you’re gonna smile
wide and show your fangs.
show them how
to run.
“Veruca Salt”
if you shrunk her to the
size of a pine needle
and try to remember her true
stature first: platformed boots,
four inches taller than she really
is and towering some men
not just in height but in
loquaciousness, abrasiveness
and hid her in the bunk of
a barn underneath the bales,
I don’t know,
he waves his hands,
for revenge.
you could even tape her mouth
shut, quell the squawking thing,
I bet
she would shine like a comet;
self immolate, ignite herself and
begin to set the barn on fire
so you could find her.
I bet;
I would bet yes every time
that even hidden like a penny
in a cornfield
she’d make sure you found her.
“how guys save me in their phone #8”
seventeenth set is most definitely
about you. I diverge
from any given task
when I am suddenly feeling
heartbroken
and really I do hope;
the crux of all disappointment
is the expectation and I want
(is an understatement)
to be seen without pressure.
I hope you find all this gaucherie
amusing.
I find it excruciating
to long and wait,
to even stand
near a thing I admire.
I like starting things,
putting them out.
penalty.
ree-per-cush-in,
the easiest thing I learned
was the alphabet and how to
string sounds together
like narratives,
to read.
ree-purr-cusi-sion
is what I crave.
my mother rushed me to
the sink at five years
old; I laid my finger
flat on the side of
the metal barrel,
it was full of leaves
and burning.
as we removed evidence
of the crisp and
precipitous October,
my mother noticed
my gaze, said “Sarah,
do not touch it” and then
I touched my finger
to the flame.
it was the brilliant orange
that drew me and force,
contained like that
right here in our backyard.
shapeshifting to a final
face like
me, armed with words,
a hot knife
and all warmed up,
having sliced through
tendon before and you just
suddenly
seeing me form the language
of concision,
the succinctness of
one scream:
crisp and precipitous,
and you just
suddenly
soft like warm butter.
“repercussion”
I will publish an anthology
of all my hurts, but the original poem
went: I will publish an
anthology of all my hurts
and it is just a
picture of me
walking to Huntington Station
not giving out cigarettes
or tokens.
it takes me forever to finish anything
because nothing
matters
but
helping
others
and
family.
“Brevity”
daturamoon.com 