–no crisis
–no overreaction
—no seduction
–no manipulation
(relationship)
“south node in Scorpio”
sometimes when I think back
to my fuck ups or falling down,
I come here and I see all these
women and I think,
whose answered prayer am I?
she said
and that struck me.
when women speak
I put my head down deferentially
but also out of my own
need to curl up
inside myself.
It’s winter, 2015,
just past the new year,
I’m broken hearted
and knee deep in
some fucking secrets
but whose answered prayer
am I? who called
the wounded shepard
here? It’s 2015 and I had
just been gifted three thousand
dollars from my grandmother
that my parents called and asked
for back.
I gave them two thousand and
used the rest to move out of
the townhouse
into a one bedroom
in the heart of Kensington.
embraced by the “Auspicious
Coin Laundry” service next door.
no one would ever miss my house.
I didn’t have anything left o
over but I never did.
it’s worth mentioning that when I was
eighteen and just home for
the summer from college,
my mother told me they had
cleaned out my savings account.
“family”
Monday:
two grapes
half a tuna sandwich
half an apple
a plum
another half of tuna sandwich
a medium size piece of salmon
steamed corn (five bites)
twelve cups of coffee.
tuesday:
five grapes
one apple
one plum
a tuna sandwich.
a medium sized flounder
steamed broccoli
eight cups of coffee.
twelve shots of vodka
wednesday:
seven grapes
two apples
one plum
*a pan crusted salmon
french fries
house salad
steamed broccoli
ice cream sundae
half a bottle of ipecac syrup.
(purged)
five cups of coffee.
*dinner out with xxx.
this is 2004 to keep up.
I go to meet you
with my hand
smudged with ink,
a bad habit of mine.
this is 2014 and
I had things to remember:
about seven or eight phone calls to
make, the weaving of
committees plus incidents to report,
plus how much I stepped or made
or consumed and the beep of friends
in need
like the outer rim of a leech,
stuck to hip and
wasting me.
when I saw the melting
phrase, a faded scrawled “pw”
near my thumb
which meant paperwork.
I had to submit five more
things tomorrow but I was here to
get my scarf back actually.
focus on just reporting
earnestly my feelings.
I walk boldly
up the walk and
then upon seeing
you, tall,
I just scatter
every thought into the air.
grab the scarf
and go.
we are at
love is patient.
I am in my car and
gone.
I send you a thank you card
in the mail just to remind
you I exist.
you could tell
I was very longing.
you had told me that was merely
absence doing that to me,
we were sustained.
I agreed but
I was cutting all my hair
off and I needed
diversion from
picking the skin off
my lips: something
tactile.
I began to
recite all the things
I was grateful for daily.
*watermelon
*mangoes
*apples
*Alize
it always starts the same way.
something I can eat,
my cat and then I see where my head
is at:
*the tiny aberrations that make up
my brain.
“the tiny aberrations ”
I spent a week
cleaning out the bookshelf
and trying to decide what to
read in the short
time I had left with
his books.
I was also debating
how I should present
myself next:
wholly, or
with my rigid cuts.
you’re distracting,
I’ve heard before.
used to get moved all the
time in elementary school,
away from my friends only
to make more friends
and get the class chattering.
me, I’m just a little
hummingbird.
little innocuous
sending
you some mailed cryptograms
asking you if you like
peaches or nectarines
better. I’m becoming juice.
how will I know
which citrus bed to
plunder, slather
myself in pulp you
can just lick right off?
me? I’ll go you
know, I’m wind,
so just take it.
just tell me what to
line my neck in.
you know it takes
you three years and I
show up head to toe
doused in rosemary
anyway,
choker dotted with
every piece of
tourmaline I own.
a tiny cross in my hand
from my nana’s broken
rosary. me?
I’m wind, I’ll
go.
kiss your cheek and
gesture to my attire,
wrapped in silver to fight
the dogs of moon,
whisper got to keep
those ghosts away,
yeah?
me? I don’t mean
a thing,
breeze in hall
just scenting the
tops of your books
like I’m right to own
them. you?
you will know me
by my officious
typeface and choker
tight around the throat
lined in polished,
black stone.
“the letters”
when we met, I was
inching my way back
to my robust self having
established myself as a
case manager. having
scraped my savings to
buy an oil leaking car
that almost caught on fire
in the first week of work
back in August.
I then borrowed money
to buy a car that didn’t.
I had paid rent for three months
without much to do.
I was high on repayments,
seeing I could repay,
in fact, and
adding cookies back into my diet,
unworried about my teeth
for seconds at a time.
the party had vegan brownies and
I made sure to get plenty.
still I could touch my ribs
and almost wrap my hands
completely around my waist.
a measure of security.
I often squeeze my ribs to
see if I’m still thin.
when we met,
I had freshly chopped
pixie hair and clear skin,
green eyeshadow to make my
brown eyes pop.
limited eyeliner and a shy
way about scooting next to
you, feeling contagious.
when we met, I had a wardrobe
that consisted of colorful
and flowy items,
hand me downs,
and a reticent entrance.
I was seeking incorporeal
thrills via touch and
you were freshly
out of love.
“the rebound”
I show up early to
make coffee,
drink coffee,
steal a couple pens
and a few donuts before the
meeting.
I’m here to look
good and watch people.
I am covered in
sweat by the time I sit down:
tan and thin from
the obsessive calorie cutting
that formed as a result of
penurious heritage,
bad timing,
mercurial interests.
I’m skinny and all
about it, wearing shirts that show
my sternum leaning hard
against the skin. that means
when I stand in front
of you, you can see the outline
of my bones.
I’m skinny cuz I’m hungry.
cuz I have been portioning
crackers. cuz I allow
myself only one piece of
bread a day. once took a spoonful
of sprinkles in my mouth as a
treat and didn’t eat anything
else for hours.
I’m letting my clavicle
show, my shoulders bony
and in front of everyone,
glistening like olive marble.
hard.
I have two tokens in my pocket;
one to get home and
one to roam.
I cross my legs in front
of a blond haired boy,
take a sip of my seventh
cup of coffee,
someone begins
you are only
sick as your secrets.
I am 120 pounds and waning,
olive marble.
“confession #”
if you write the book
men won’t like
you. I’m nodding,
eating cashews,
wearing my hair out.
wearing pants.
daturamoon.com 