Listening for the moment, you’ll find it’s there.
Open a space in it with your breath.
We are swimming in time.
Don’t fall asleep.
Don’t forget to breathe.
Be a choir.
Be the pitch reverberating.
Be the blessed echo.
“I can’t draw a straight line to save my life.”
In my mind, this is my sister’s voice
or some woman down the street or every
woman I ever met except those
annoyingly confident girls I was too
scared to emulate.
My sister is an artist, and so am I, though
I didn’t know it for a very long time and
I immediately feel the need to justify
why I can’t draw a straight line to save my life.
The boys used to draw pictures in school.
Dustin liked to draw shoes.
He thought high tops were cool, and deer
hunting, too, but he wasn’t so good at people
till he started drawing our teacher, and soon
we weren’t allowed to draw in class anymore.
But I can’t draw a straight line to save my life.
What do you do in the middle of a piece
when you know it’s going to be a shitty first draft?
But I can’t draw a straight line to save my life.
Somewhere in here is a metaphor for queerness
but also for how fucking confused I am because
this is not a phase but being bisexual is actually
confusing because everyone else thinks
they know what you are, and you can’t draw
a straight line to save your life.
And you live in a world where a third of the people
want you dead (or don’t mind if the president does)
and a third don’t care and a third are running
dangerously low on fucks to give and you’re trying
not to see enemies everywhere,
to have compassion and reason and to discern between
causes and effects, but you’re constantly bombarded with
more bad news and you can’t draw a straight line
to save your life.
So I sit with pen in hand gazing out the
window and imagine the day ahead — how
I’ll get from here to night, and I
can’t draw a straight line to save my life.
This poem may still be in the midst of the editorial process. I don’t really know for sure. I like this version, and I think it’s fun to read out loud. I’ve been struggling a little bit lately because I feel that poetry is really best shared out loud more than on a page, or at least that there needs to be some greater dimension of interaction between the writer, the material, and the reader. So, I’ve been using social media such as Instagram and Snapchat to share. The trouble this time is that those platforms are designed for shorter messages than this. Hmm… always experimenting. Always learning.
In case you’d rather read the poem yourself, here’s the full text.
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I haven't been to confession since the fifth grade. I came here to confess that I have left behind every scrap of faith I ever had and I wish to account for it. I want you to know that I prayed to your god and I told him what I was going to do and he did not stop me. I knelt twice a week at the feet of that poor man and sculpted his ribs with my eyes and untied in my mind the shred of cloth at his hips. I had his blood on my lips and he did not ask me to stay. Sweet child of a man, he rolled his eyes to God and prayed himself away so you could take his name in vain -- but he did not ask me to stay. I want you to know that I don’t miss the Sunday morning fashion show or your admonitions or the hypnotic repetition of unthinking prayers in our monotone drone -- worker bees stoned on incense and wine, keeping an empty ritual just to fill the time repeating the spell of our own binding I believe I believe I believe we loved our endless litany of saints and sins all taken in the legato of suburban life. I want you to know that in the desert outside your home where you said I’d be alone, I found an ocean of love like you’ve never known and I dove right the fuck in and it was good. And out here, none of us are who you said we were. We are so much more. I want you to know I’m going away, and I’m not coming back.
I probably will do a bit of editing, and I’ll maybe change the first line since it doesn’t create quite the tone I want to start with. I don’t actually seek forgiveness, as the poet or as the speaker of this poem, so I find that line misleading and a little cliched. The reason I’ve kept it this way so far is that I don’t know exactly what I want to change it to and that I was trained with great emphasis as a child that all confessions were supposed to start that way. I’ll let it rest for now and see what comes up with a little time.
The Living Room a pair of hand made socks knit with cheap, colorful yarn the mittens not quite the same size a vase about to topple on my table as the cats race-chase through the house chirping and trilling at each other their joy for grey days and wet food. a couch full of hangars and clothes I need to put away lit dramatically by the window pillows that have been laid upon so lovingly they're flat. a painting by my sister and At-at in a hat with Mickey Mouse ears and a skull whose brain has been replaced with a number of dice.
Carrie is taking a creative writing class in school this semester, and I’m blatantly stealing her assignment prompts for my own use. In this case, the assignment was to write a poem introducing oneself to the class via a metaphor. I am a mess. A total disaster area of love and happiness, but a mess nonetheless. I particularly relate to the ceramic skull in which we keep our gaming dice.
Jesus in the garden
for his life.
Because we cannot take back our cruelty, we make him king.
Hold him up.
Hold up the shreds of his garments.
We feel so stupid now.
We didn’t know he was God
until we saw him bleed.
And now we make each other bleed.
We say, you are not god.
That is not god lying dead in the street.
That was not god begging for his life.
How do you know?
How do you know he won’t
come back with black skin
wearing a hoodie or just,
you know, walking through
your neighborhood on a
How do you know three days from now you won’t
remember his face?