hi blogging world, it’s been awhile but I’m back to share my words with more consistency. these two poems, “Grown Woman” and “compost, recursion” were written during my time at Western, and accepted and published in Jeopardy Magazine’s 2016 edition. I was overjoyed to be published alongside so many talented writers, especially because so many of them were my peers and classmates.
thanks for reading!
she is lithe, voiced and dreamy. intention is mirrored in motion is mirrored in muscles is mirrored in mantras, and so on, and so she moves. she admires the contraction of her muscles, the lewd mass of her calves and thighs, and is pleased.
when the anchored eyelids of time intrude, she quiets the buzzing inside her, drops eaves on happy children and swallows the accompanying soft joy that tastes so much like apprehension. there is another joy, beyond windows, chain-link, interstates, college towns, microclimates, mountain ranges, state lines. there is a joy beyond the quiet joy. she knows because that truth is calligraphied on her bones. she believes it because she wrote it.
hazes pass and she pines for silk. she snaps her spindly fingers in 4/4 time and nearby trees collapse. the willow she favors she collects and props it up like a broom, spends hours pruning and fidgeting with its tendrils, and ponders all the neglected atoms of human bodies and sea bodies and earth’s body. the protein bulk of her quivers with the waiting, the wanting, the wilding nature compressed into checklists and bank accounts and binaries as blinding as the very star she orbits. she snaps her fingers at her patience. she will count to three, and spring.
in the fall we ‘barrow all the bitter orbs we couldn’t eat
from treeshade to the crowned king, wide-mouthed woman,
our hand-me-down compost heap: an old fridgadaire on its side,
resplendent haven of pill bugs, fruit flies and prophetic worms.
a sharp ear might discern the busy gurgle behind the pestbuzz,
but to plumb the dirt’s depths is to interrupt the hot heat
churning the uncounted pounds of speckled ground apples,
the hot heat that melts them to a fertile puddle we will depend upon.
would you guess that an apple tree’s trash combined with
coffee grounds and fruit scraps could home a future of corn stalks?
we laugh with tools in hand, smirk at decay, we have gained
the old knowledge of muck passed down through the worms.