“My dear girl is it that you are so lonely you had to create all of this?”
—house of leaves
I’m in the doctor’s office
trying not to laugh
as he keeps pressing me
“what was your father like?”
I don’t have time quite frankly.
this man is asking me if I ever
feel like I am watching myself from
outside of my body.
I say sincerely,
sounds like you think I’m a ghost.
I’m trying not to laugh.
he is outlining various traumas
I may have experienced in my life:
my drinking,
my family’s drinking,
my previous assaults by men.
I’m just talking about the mirror
and gesturing a lot to the air
about the fact I asked for it
and then my legs went numb.
that was the first time,
I say.
when I asked for her to enter me.
before she did it without asking.
I nod as if he is answering the questions.
Sir, I am possessed.
I don’t have time for this.
“LILITH”
I walked by my old apartment
just to feel it
grab me.
what I would miss most
were the stained glass windows
and the birds surrounding my house
but nothing else.
it was marked off with caution
tape and a sign that said
it was dangerous.
my side wall had burst.
water shot out.
the place flooded.
there were bricks everywhere.
people used to tell me
the place vibrated
and sometimes pictures fell
of the wall.
what I remember is the
mirror and the way they made
me undress and throw coins
on the floor, buy them
toffee. the way
they never told me
their name.
laying naked looking at the
ceiling guessing names,
less than a year ago
before the wall burst.
“Poltergeist”
I wore black every day
just in case.
the train was fifteen minutes
late and I was
one month
and counting.
“the accident”
I don’t like to talk about my
house so I don’t
but the garage
is gone and so is everything
that was in it. my
childhood bedroom is gone
and so is everything that was
in it. one day the sink
will collapse. we have snakes
in there. other things too>.
I have no
yearbooks. I have a couple
notes from my friends
and a swath from a cologne sample
my high school lover
used to wear between
fucking his wife and me,
a note he wrote me once.
but I am thinking of
myself younger
and the old lip gloss bottle,
a roller, vanilla scented
but pink
that I had saved because it
reminded me of an entire
freezing december
on my crush’s bench
where sometimes they let me
wear their sweatshirts.
I am
holding my hands to the ground,
feeling vines wind up
my calves.
repeating,
muttering.
the way they describe me to the
ambulance is someone who
looked like she saw the horizon
close in on her and
collapsed.
the way they describe me
to the first responder
is that I looked to be seized
by terror like she saw the
horizon closing in and
just fell
to the ground.
“Persephone”
when you find me
I am sitting on the dirt
twisting a mask
in my fingers
and you could not catch
what I said only that it
was muttered,
repeated and there is something
not quite vapid about me,
but lost and then
filled with something
else. the first thing I say to you
is it’s torrential.
I expect you to know what to say
back.
are my hands changing colors?
I examine them myself,
fingers spread, string
around index, mouth cover
dangling.
I expect you to know what
to say back.
“Carey”
A neighbor once caught me staring at the license plates on my block. I was five years old. We lived in a court and I was allowed to play in the court by myself so long as I didn’t wander off too far anywhere else which I did often but I had grown used to crouching, hopping fences and often could slip in and out to Lea’s house undetected. I don’t know the circumstances of why I was outside but I do remember it was overcast. I do remember I had a light jacket on, probably a shade of pink. I am sure my hair was uncombed. I am sure my bangs felt too long. I am sure that I was trying to rid myself of this hindrance even so young, tossing it away with my hand constantly or tying it back in a ponytail, patting the back of my head when it was sopping from the heat wishing I could peel it off. When it was cooler, I left it alone. Left it down and I am sure I was wearing pink corduroy pants with brown spots in the center of the knees and they were permanent. I was sure I had been tucking my chin to my neck and twisting the pine needle with both hands and crouching, my knees strong then. My white sneakers scuffed. The tips of my shoelaces drawn brown with mud and I am sure I didn’t hear her approach me from behind. I am sure she heard me muttering.
I had been going up the driveway of each neighbor’s house and sitting behind the car, in front of the license plate. She had seen me from her window. I was looking closely at the license plate, that is all she could see. I was looking at each piece of information. VA for state tags. To be clear it was VA, like VAH. Like the sound it made. Vah. I would say it. The letters in front of the numbers. Some would be doubled. Some in doubles. That felt special, like they were chosen to be doubles. Like some plates required scrutiny. This one had a green tag in the top left corner which was usual but also did not have repeating numbers. XGH-2879. It would have sounded better, I am saying out loud, XGH-2873 when I hear her.
“Honey?”
I was five and soft and supple and ingenue and so much deeper than I am now. She said what are you doing? from behind me which scared me. I was tiny and crouched there with my most favorite one to hold; the withered needle. I am sure she heard me.
I said I’m trying to read the code.
if i was a man,
i’d have a big dick.
I got a nine millimeter, I say,
casually, waving my hand over the wooden
board. hidden in this house.
I got this house lined with weapons.
I place the orange butcher knife
on the linoelum counter,
scraps of tomato still clinging so
I can
scoop the slug up from beneath the
dishwasher and put him
back in the shade.
he follows me out.
easily distracted.
we were having vegan charcuterie
and he is drinking chardonnay.
with me it’s always
something, plentiful,
homemade.
he’s seen half my knife collection
now and every inked guard;
the other half tucked in various places.
I gestured to the antique table,
to the pepper spray,
the hammer by the door.
I point out the ants
lining the sink.
swathed with charms,
I can’t kill a thing
and half the town has figured it out.
I wear my arms in
muscle, others’ biceps.
keep them around cuz
I can’t kill a thing
and half the town has figured
it out. point to the baseball bat.
show him my pearly growl.
this is where the poem begins
we both eye the slug moving
through the garden
til he disappears.
I begin pointing out
webs.
it’s 7:42 pm,
88 degrees and
the sun is out,
my shoulders dark.
we are both tan,
hurt, a possible onslaught
if we were not otherwise
stuffed and I am practicing
silence,
sitting on my bench.
we are two inches from each
other and I can’t help but
melt when the cool breath
hits my left cheek.
I’m plucking at the hem.
he grabs my hand
to stop my ticking.
what’s that?
he says.
this is where the poem begins.
the first thing I say
is lucky you,
I am a switch.
I have just learned a basic knot.
I pull out the pad.
you are secured to purple
velvet chair and the highlight
of a decade of chant.
here is where I begin:
I start by slaughtering your brothers
in front of you to see
if you can stand it.
I begin to read old love letters
out loud to see if you
can stand it.
daturamoon.com 