scribbledshadows

Words. Lots of Words.

On Lint — March 22, 2017

On Lint


I hold the dead things in my hand.

I am grateful

 

that they have been collected

all

in one place.

 

They speak,

briefly

of days that have passed,

 

of moments that have existed

and since

moved on to a different shape of matter.

 

I hold the dead things in my hand.

 

The things, once remnants

that now are refuse.

 

 

Astronaut — March 20, 2017

Astronaut


“I thought you might become an astronaut.”

 

but my age was not a space race,

and though I have always loved the stars

they are best when viewed through tree-boughs.

 

In any case I have always been too afraid of the dark.

My fascinations are my fears, and while I can study the depths of blackness,

the breaking of time- they could not be my livelihood.

 

No sooner could I be an astronaut than I could be a sailor-

but I am almost there mother.

 

I have a boy who looks at me like I am all the constellations in the sky,

all of them at once.

I have learned to fly, and sometimes I do run away from this Earth

to a place with different trees and different stars.

 

And mother, I promise you

I will find you new galaxies,

I will send you messages from far-flung places,

I will leave you and this planet, and

 

I will come back someday, full of stories from the sky.

Goblins — March 10, 2017

Goblins


I tuck my goblins into bed.

 

“The rest is for tomorrow,

it will not be forgotten,”

I sing; I appease.

 

I fold the covers around them

so they will fear no loss tonight,

so no shadows will enter their sheets.

 

So they will not run wild and infect the hours

with fever dreams. So they will not

pinch toes and flicker lights and itch.

 

So they will not moan or tingle or tie my ankles

with the bedsheets. So they will not

send pins and needles into my arms and my spine

and leave me paralyzed with all the words left unsaid.

 

Instead, they will drift off to the lullaby

and tomorrow I will let them consume me

like waffles. I will let in the daylight.

 

I will let my skin catch on fire.

We will listen to the crackle and hiss of its song together.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Red — March 8, 2017

Red


My mother was thirty-seven when she miscarried.

 

When my potential brothers

left, when my eleven year old sister found her on the kitchen floor

in a pool of her own blood, hair splayed.

 

When the paramedics carried her away

in a box of blinking lights

and blaring beeps.

 

I am fourteen, waking up in a pool of my own.

 

It is a monthly ritual:

Where I beg clothes, dry and unstained from my grandmother.

Where I run the washing machine at three-fucking-thirty-AM.

 

I will live this story on repeat for years,

count the months in sacrificed underwear,

tampon wrappers, and ibuprofen.

 

My best friend is twenty-two.

She thinks of babies in numbers.

 

She does the math on the potentiality,

on the blood and tears, the days and work

that would need to be spent first- to even arrive at someday.

 

She tries to reconcile it, like she reconciles her taxes

but the price is too steep. It always has been.

 

The princess is sixteen,

she pricks her finger on a spindle.

 

A single drop of blood falls,

spatters onto the cold wooden floor.

She sleeps for a hundred years, for now.

 

I do not blame her.

 

 

Inheritances — March 3, 2017

Inheritances


I am carving a hole in your heart,

my darling

 

for it is the dearest gift I know

how to give

 

though I have lived its curse

know, that the shape of my handiwork

will ache forever.

 

Like I know that the blocks I make from the light

are of me, I can watch them collapse, fade to shadow

grow once more.

 

And I know, that adventures are lonely sorts of creatures.

That they are traumas,

that they end.

 

That eventually you and I must plod on

as though nothing has happened

even when the birds come and eat us away

tempted by the lacks we bleed from.

 

That we must not turn away from our lives,

from our selves. We must live in the ache

on the road that is not smooth,

 

bless our children with our shadows

and our knives.

Landscapes — February 27, 2017

Landscapes


We are lying

in bed. I am tracing my fingers

across the secrets your nakedness has revealed.

 

You answer the unspoken question my hands have posed by lingering

with a story. You tell me that once upon a time, a meteor slammed into your chest,

that it left a crater there.

 

The crater, I can see.

The ridges that would funnel water inward to make a pool

if you were a landscape and not a person.

 

But I cannot see the space debris

the shards of precious metals that would have fragmented off in the impact-

perhaps they are embedded too deeply in your bones.

 

You burrow your head into my shoulder

like you would carve a matching cavern there.

You wear away at me, and I am a glacier melting in joy at the sun.

 

It is not an impact.

It is a gentle erosion.

 

I think of the myths we make of the Earth,

the stories we tell

about how mountains came to be.

 

I think of the gods who made this place before we walked here,

about how they moulded bodies from clay and flowers,

about how they did not make ours.

 

I think of how one day the moon might shatter,

rain bolides down upon us

until there is nothing left but craters

 

nothing left but secrets for the archeologists of the future

to reveal.

Absolute Magnitudes — February 23, 2017

Absolute Magnitudes


I want your gaze

tangled in the strands of my hair,

like I want you in my bed

 

where I can hide myself

in the cavern of your armpit

 

knit my knees through yours,

hold on with the flex and pointe of my feet

 

like I am holding onto the planet-

fully aware of the speed of its spin.

 

where there is an echoing lullaby,

an ever-constant spell

 

we cast each morning and night,

catching the syllables as they return to us

 

like stars, reeling them in

as though they were fish, swimming in the universe.

 

Ophelia Complexes — February 17, 2017