we took our tops off
fuck us or write a poem
we told you the deal
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
For April 7-8
Dear Mommy,
I saw you kissing daddy
when he was leaving through
the front door of the blue
shuttered house. After
that, he only kissed blondes.
The first one had barbie
pink lipstick and curls.
I learned that marriage does not
have to include throwing pots
and pans, or the police
on our front steps. It does not
involve dingy brown carpeted
court rooms where strangers
record what I say with
a machine that looks like
the stereo I love.
SICILIA
I miss…
The dingy smell of Nona’s house.
It only starts to
smell fresh with life
once we leave.
I’ll be back next summer.
Sitting on her lap, feeling like I’m going to
break her legs, and
she doesn’t care.
Communicating so many things
without any words.
The distinct sound of
vespas
as I fall asleep,
and when I wake up.
Climbing in and out of the window
that was so much bigger when I was
a little girl.
The rocks on the beach.
Sunbathing topless because it
is socially acceptable
Through the white cemetery
gates and into the stone room
that holds my family.
This place sits towards the top
of the mountain and looks out on
the ocean.
I read the names on the stones
That I pass who label people I don’t know
as I run up the cobble steps
to be the first one
to say hello, and
pay my respects to my
family in Gioiosa Marea.
Counting the moving yellow
lights against the black sea and
sky from the fishing boats
at night.
The feel and look of
teal tile floors that look up towards
sun-dried towels and clothes after
a cool shower.
The sharp corners
of the spiral streets that are
built along the mountains.
I saw you kissing daddy
when he was leaving through
the front door of the blue
shuttered house. After
that, he only kissed blondes.
The first one had barbie
pink lipstick and curls.
I learned that marriage does not
have to include throwing pots
and pans, or the police
on our front steps. It does not
involve dingy brown carpeted
court rooms where strangers
record what I say with
a machine that looks like
the stereo I love.
SICILIA
I miss…
The dingy smell of Nona’s house.
It only starts to
smell fresh with life
once we leave.
I’ll be back next summer.
Sitting on her lap, feeling like I’m going to
break her legs, and
she doesn’t care.
Communicating so many things
without any words.
The distinct sound of
vespas
as I fall asleep,
and when I wake up.
Climbing in and out of the window
that was so much bigger when I was
a little girl.
The rocks on the beach.
Sunbathing topless because it
is socially acceptable
Through the white cemetery
gates and into the stone room
that holds my family.
This place sits towards the top
of the mountain and looks out on
the ocean.
I read the names on the stones
That I pass who label people I don’t know
as I run up the cobble steps
to be the first one
to say hello, and
pay my respects to my
family in Gioiosa Marea.
Counting the moving yellow
lights against the black sea and
sky from the fishing boats
at night.
The feel and look of
teal tile floors that look up towards
sun-dried towels and clothes after
a cool shower.
The sharp corners
of the spiral streets that are
built along the mountains.
we shouldn’t be allowed in cemetaries
and not just because we’re all under the age of 23
i’m pretty sure we shouldn’t have been drinking
imposter champagne
made in florida
and eating cupcakesby your grave
but it seemed appropriate
to celebrate your birthday
the way you would’ve wanted
you would've been 22 today
im not entirely convinced
that you’re not drinking a martini
and laughing at all of us down here
and hoping
that i’d take down
that embarrassing prom picture of you
by the piano
we all tied messages to balloons
and sent them up for you to read
don’t let the mailmen in heaven
get confused because i called you cher
and signed it dionne
i know you’ll understand
standing under your tree
i watched my balloon
after i let go
saw it float up into the sky
until it was just a pink dot
obscured by clouds
and my eyes were too watery to focus
and not just because we’re all under the age of 23
i’m pretty sure we shouldn’t have been drinking
imposter champagne
made in florida
and eating cupcakesby your grave
but it seemed appropriate
to celebrate your birthday
the way you would’ve wanted
you would've been 22 today
im not entirely convinced
that you’re not drinking a martini
and laughing at all of us down here
and hoping
that i’d take down
that embarrassing prom picture of you
by the piano
we all tied messages to balloons
and sent them up for you to read
don’t let the mailmen in heaven
get confused because i called you cher
and signed it dionne
i know you’ll understand
standing under your tree
i watched my balloon
after i let go
saw it float up into the sky
until it was just a pink dot
obscured by clouds
and my eyes were too watery to focus
Morning Hours
There is only quiet wind,
outside my window
the world sleeps,
car horns beep
at far away distances,
too far to mean
anything,
the street is dully lamplit,
only a man, I can't see
can feel the pavement,
under his feet, as he
walks by like a street cat,
the air in
my room is still,
it breaths me in
slowly, and I sit,
trying to live
on paper
outside my window
the world sleeps,
car horns beep
at far away distances,
too far to mean
anything,
the street is dully lamplit,
only a man, I can't see
can feel the pavement,
under his feet, as he
walks by like a street cat,
the air in
my room is still,
it breaths me in
slowly, and I sit,
trying to live
on paper
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