She speaks with a force
that has developed from a life
few would understand or even believe.
She painfully twists her ear,
grounding herself
while she stands in silence.
Can the proof of her pain be found
in the pages of her book
or in the lines written
on her face?
Will her story be judged
by those who read only
the first chapter?
I layer pink rouge
on my pale cheeks,
the bones like a bas relief
jutting from my cold face.
My hands,
once supple
and able,
stiffen to impotence.
I force my limbs
into a pleasant
posture
so as not to offend
those who mourn me.
My heart
I remove and discard,
filling the hole
with handfuls
of sawdust.
My grimace
of despair
I mold into a false
smile,
tucking the straight pins
into my cheeks,
pinning them
into place.
My intellect is blue and green
And smells of damp refreshment;
Or so it seems.
In fact, it is a mirage;
A distraction;
Something pretty to be admired
To cover the reality.
The quick and shimmery fish of doubt
Flitting in and out
Of the coral reefs of my mind
Squirming, weaving,
Worming their manic melody into
The grey folds of
My brain.
The waves form an illusion--
Salty spray,
Harmless, fun,
Cool to feet warmed by sand.
But I know the crashing erosion
For what it is--
Eating away at the solidity,
Pulling away pieces of the shore
And putting it in other places
It doesn’t belong.
The beauty of the vast undulating
Liquid womb of Mother Earth
Is what you admire—
Mistakenly.
I know it
For its reality:
Hidden rip tides of fear
Pulling me far away from the safety
Of the beach;
Sucking vortexes;
Whirlpools of despair.
I try to float on the surface,
But as time wears me
And I lose strength,
I know it isn’t long
Before I am pulled down
Into the murky depths.
The sea seems a fantasy of mystery and wonder,
But in reality, it is a dark, bone-chilling
Liquid grave—
Not a watery womb from which life
Springs,
But a fluid filled tomb
That demands my return.
My feet hurt.
I can barely walk, but
There are still rough spots
That have to be peeled away.
When I am sleeping,
My hand or my foot
Will slide
Across satin that snags
On the shingled skin.
I have to wake up and peel
Until it doesn't snag anymore.
The skin that has surrounded me
Since birth
Is my curse.
Skin is supposed to protect and support,
But I despise it,
I want to tear it
And bite it
Until it submits to me--
Picking until scabs form,
Leaving a comfortable pattern
Like Braille
For my fingers to find
When I need comfort.
But this skin is mine,
Regardless of my contempt for it.
Often I am ashamed
Of my hands and feet.
People stare—
Like at lepers in Jerusalem.
But sometimes…
Sometimes I feel powerful
Looking at the external
Manifestation
Of my internal pain.
In some areas
My fingertips are blank—
Spotty like the memory of
The old man in 1-B.
The fingerprints that identify me
Are slowly being replaced by
Scars—
Blank, new, untainted—
As my identity is slowly
Eaten away.
There are shiny pink and red scars
On my feet,
Sometimes faint like a
Delicate Carnation
Pinned to a prom dress,
Sometimes blooming
In crimson and
Dripping onto the bathroom tile,
Leaving Rorschach blots
On the floor.
Verse I
Shall we kneel and pray
At the altar of the saint
At the feet of the Lord
At the top of the hill
Where the flock is kept
Where the sun never sets
Where we all feel safe?
Verse II
Let’s sing our praise
In the valley of death
In a time of need
In a moment of repose
When we feel all alone
When no one hears our cry
When we are lost.
Verse III
No questions asked
No doubt in mind
No fear of failure
No God to follow
We will worship ourselves
We will adore our own bodies
We will praise our passion
We will die alone.
I should have known
When I was forced through,
Conforming to the doorway—
My passage to this world—
Pushed screaming and red-faced
From a place I could not stay
Into a place I did not fit
That the labor of my mother
Would not end with my birth;
In fact, it would transfer to me.
The not fitting endures.
The ring doesn't,
The dress doesn't,
The bed doesn't,
Fit me.
How fortunate is my daughter
Lifted free from her fleshy confinement
Through a scalpel slice
Gently
Without the pressure of being forced
Out
Into a world in which she would not
Fit.
Standing at the ledge—
at the edge of it all—
I am a small speck
before sea and sky.
The water is blue and refreshing.
I cannot swim.
The sky is clear and open.
I cannot fly.
Remaining even with the horizon,
where the up and down
meet and blur,
I stand inert.
In the gently-wooded graveyard
Stacked-stone walls stand sentinel.
Years defined by marble memorials and six-word epitaphs—
Lucky pennies, dead flowers, ceramic cherubim
Layered upon concrete slabs—
My bare feet return to a well-trod path;
Fragmented bits of grass cling to my toes
As drooping leaves gently weep last night’s rain.
The raw smell of the pregnant earth fills my throat—
A fresh wound
Awaits the one who will come next,
The one who will rest here with
The others who came before.
I am listening for Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed;
Her name is poet, goddess, Turkish Delight
And sounds like a caress—
Feather-soft touch slipping from my lips
Softly fluttering from my face;
Butterfly kisses float across the room and reach far away.
I am thinking of Icarus, my head back, my eyes implore the ceiling—
But it won't answer me...
I am thinking of Icarus, my head back;
My mind wanders across and above and below, from here
To there.
Did Icarus feel the same draw—the painful knowing
That resistance is futile, but to comply is certain death—of a sort.
I am thinking of Icarus; I listen with my eyes closed.
I am listening for Icarus, intent, my breath baited;
There is no sound, no reply,
And that is the answer.
Will I, like Icarus, fly too close to the sun
And crash blissfully into the ocean?
Will I die with a smile on my lips and no
Questions left unanswered?
I am waiting for Icarus, eager, my head back;
My eyes implore the ceiling—
But it doesn't answer me.
I am also thinking of the Phoenix, aware;
My eyes focus on the ceiling and see through it.
She kissed the pen that had fallen from my hand,
And now I lift it again, with desire.
Legend says the Phoenix dwelled in Arabia,
But I know she called Istanbul her home.
And is it I instead who will build the pyre and
Set myself ablaze—rising from the ashes?
I am thinking of the Phoenix, my head back, confused,
But there is no certain reply.
I am thinking of the Phoenix, intent; my soul searches, waiting for an answer.
They say the bird floated over the shoulder of Shakespeare
And whispered inspiration, but is she singing
A mocking-bird song, an imitation, a shallow flattering mimic of another bird's song?
I am thinking of the Phoenix, curious, lingering unrest,
It feels like a suicide bomb strapped to my heart.
I am listening to the waves; heart full, eyes of fog.
I look out to Bosphorus Bridge and wait for her to cross.
I can't make her hurry; maybe she will cross in her own time.
I will watch, and wait,
Contemplate,
While she becomes more than Orhan Pamuk,
More than
Herself, the Phoenix—
Myself Icarus.
I believe I will try to touch the sun
While I am thinking of Istanbul, poet, goddess—
Myself rising from the ashes.
“I am become Death. Shatterer of Worlds.” --Bagavad-Ghita
I.
I envied his flaming pride,
His carelessness.
I envied the way he openly painted his nails
Glittery gold
And bleached his hair
With Clairol Number 9
While he watched me get ready for
Yet another date with some boy—
Because it was expected of me.
But I was angry with him
The day he took
My Bagavad-Ghita.
He wanted it.
So he took it.
Later I gave it to him, and
He carried it in his back pocket.
I envied the time
He spent studying it,
In the woods, in the bed, in his wandering,
While I worked.
II.
And I was angry with him
The night before my third wedding
When he sat near a bonfire
Getting drunk with the groom-to-be;
I came home from work
Tired, drained, anxious,
And I screamed at him,
Because I envied his freedom.
But he came with me anyway
The next day.
He scattered red roses
On the sand
And sliced the cake
Topped with seashells,
And he quietly watched me
Say the words—
The promises
He knew I could not keep.
And I envied his ease,
His ability to live freely.
III.
Two weeks later,
I was angry with him again
When he died face down on a stranger’s bed
Breathing in his own vomit—
A confetti-pharmacopeia
Liberated from his gut.
He left me
before I could say I loved him.
And that I envied his escape.
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