Hothouse

On Sundays,
the woman wise enough to measure the amount of alcohol pours three
fingers of vodka into the bohemian wine glass that sits two feet away
from the kitchen countertop’s vast ledge. Her arms, fastened by her
perished lover’s (was there more than one?; she cannot remember),
cradle, are spasming, confined by unperceivable safety straps
crisscrossing her body. She takes a step back, unknowingly unfastening
the makeshift ghost lover’s seatbelt that carefully molds into her figure.
Once she ignorantly steps out of the confining cocoon, she stares at the
Holy Grail sitting two feet away from her. It sits frivolously, naïvely,
almost mockingly, unaware of the unholy damage it will do once taken
off its altar of damnation.

On Mondays,
the woman allows herself only two fingers of whiskey added to the
vodka. The goblet sits there, glittering and clear and stocked with
stale, yet purifying, vodka, silent and pleading, mutely thirsting for
the molten honey gold presented to it. She raises her hand, securely
clenching the whiskey above the wine glass, looking past her shoulder
and staring at her counters, before viciously dumping the heavenly
damned contents into the Grail. She looks back, scans the altar for
any spillage, glances at the cup, and nods, a heavy glaze of murkiness
traversing her eyes.

On Wednesdays,
the woman is high off her tears. The tear tracks left trailing from her
eyes have burned through her cheeks. Red, angry welts in the shape of
distressed static lines flow down her face, her lips trembling in stormy
turmoil. Her teeth bite through the skin and fat of her cheeks. It is not
blood that flows through her drooling mouth, but a blend of drool and
rancid whisky and stale vodka. Sluggishly, her eyes widen and shoot to
the chalice sitting upon its altar. Tempting, it is.

On Thursdays,
the woman is sitting on her heels, rocking back and forth and praying
to the cup. Every inch of skin is purple and blue and red and yellow and
grey and bruised.

On Saturdays,
the woman is naked, crawling to her restitution. The ghost lover’s
ripped seatbelt rests two feet behind her. On the floor, she lays pure.
Purple and blue and red and yellow and grey and bruised, she crawls.
Her knees are scraped and bloody, oozing whiskey and vodka from her
scraped knees.

On Sundays, again,
the woman is nude and sobbing.
On Sunday, sweat oozes from the woman’s pores, and holy water
drops from the woman’s tear ducts and she is wobbling on her feet. On
Sunday, she is reaching towards the cup, damned be the consequences.

On Sunday,
she grasps the bowl of the glass and chucks it towards her purple and
blue and red and yellow and grey and bruised chest. On Sunday, she
cradles the chalice like a baby to its mother.

On Sunday,
she sees her reflection in the vessel. She’s smirking, and purple and
blue and red and yellow and bruised are swirling under her skin. Black
tar leaks from her eyes. She frantically shakes her head and blinks. She
looks back at her reflection. She is still pure.

On Sunday,
she reaches in between the almost mountainous valley between her
breasts and rips into herself.

On Sunday,
she rips into herself, parting rib cages and stabbing organs.

On Sunday,
she pours the holy liquid into her being. Into every crevice of her soul,
it flows.

Grief is when you are sour
dough, a puddle from the mother
no end, no beginning, amorphous
spread out, held only by the shape of
what happens to contain you.

Then, you are beaten, again and again
thwapped against the wall
of the mixing bowl
or the counter
however god prefers to toughen you up.

Each beating you grow tighter
you cling relentlessly to anything
anyone
that touches you
begging to be held
until you give up, smooth
round, contracted.

At last, some rest
drowning in olive oil
or smothered in flour
shuffled away with a cover on
your troubles. You belong in a warm, still place.

You feel you ought to be
O.K. But this is only the beginning.
Everything sweet in you gets eaten up
your guts boil
you shout hot, angry, boozy air
at the thin film separating you from
the rest of the world.

You think of being flour and water
again, and again
you’re stretched this way and that
into the shape
the world wants you to be.
Making you stronger feels like
tearing you apart
Is there any difference?
You learn how to hold yourself.

If you’re lucky, your tense
exterior will soon be slashed
with the razor of
Hope/Expectation
a deliberate fault line
where you can safely explode
and show the world what was once
on the inside.
You will look beautiful.

Rest, again,
wonder, again,
Will I be able to take much more?
Will the flames burn me to a crisp?
Will I keep staying stuck until
I am overproofed
airless, levelled, grotesque?

Or

Will I Rise?

You still waltz with me in my dreams.
Gifting me the nurture I’ve always craved from you.
The warm, gentle kisses I’ve never secured.
Viewing life from a rose-tinted lens.
Forgetting to hide my soft underbelly.
Like a child’s gaze for approval.
Why do I ache when I’ve given everything you wanted?
It’s been years since I’ve felt your painful, rugged grasp.
Years since I’ve seen your cold, dead stare.
Your shrill cry, warning me of every mistake I’ve made.
Though you still visit me, smiling, pleading for my embrace.
Like a serpent waiting for its prey.
Do you still dream of me?

I was once a perfect angel– now I spin in empty rooms. 
Picture me on fire, now paint me as the star. 
When I’m good I sing like preachers. Every good thing 
comes to life. Day dreamers, starlets. Dead girls and their 
pills. Claria Bow splits a fag, ashes it in a can. 
I’m beyond saving. I can dance on the points of pins. 
Move over, honey; I’ll set this whole town alight. Second 
moment. Jilted lover. I’m the maestro of the nickel 
screen. Everybody wants a miracle, but no one wants to 
see it through. Not me though, I’m a crack shot. I never 
leave a witness behind. I ask the dresser what he thinks 
of heaven, he brushes lashes from his eye. I think it must 
be awful, he says. Not knowing wrong from wrong. I 
need good things by the dozens. Vodka tonics. Crushed 
up pills. But we don’t have a choice; we can only stand 
and wail. Doctors streaming in with their knives and 
pills and all I wanted was a life worth living. In an instant 
I’ve forgotten everything, all the roses and the starlets 
and the bright gold gleaming lights. 
I’m just a matchbook again. 
All my angels have left the room.

Home lights go low 
                    brief cries for your mother 
                              rest into the old rocking chair 
                    swish creak 
your baby hand finding the crook of my neck 
                    your tummy on my tummy 
                              your chest on my chest 
                    swish creak 
your baby breath deepening 
                   no more cries for mother 
                              except mine 
                    swish creak 
safety in knowing 
                    feeling fragile skin and soft hearts 
                              protected away from harm 
                    swish creak 
To know the gentle love of the stars 
                    the gentle love of your people 
                              In blankets and embrace 
                    swish creak 
we’re all warmth and joy and dreams 
                    before the hurt 
                              before the ache
                    swish creak 
a moonbeam 
                   in dancing dreams 
                              I wonder 
                    swish creak 
if hearts filled and 
                    if eyes closed and 
                              if we remember this 
                    swish creak 
could we let love overflow? 
                    shaking but brave 
                              changing the world 
                    swish creak 
aloe cool water healing desires 
                              trickling on deep wounds 
                                                            that had a beginning

	for K and the cicadas we had to shout over

A summer curse to be endured 			                (BEAR)
They sound (to her) like oil drills 			                (BORE)
Their calls cut deep, through wax and stone 	                (GROAN)
Then into oil (and ear) drums spill 			        (ROAR)

Buzzing on a Xiangshan boulder, 
We’d snuck off to dream up 
Answers to the question: 
“Can an echo sound thirsty to you?” 

She suggests that life is corrosive: 
Like our sweat sucking silt at each instant, 
Etching a grave one pore at a time; 
We keep our distance in the downpour, 
Though we know no one’s dry. 

I say it’s maybe more like
The cicadas are eating our boulder. 
“What a comedown! 
Can’t they see we’re together? 
Talking about poetry together?
Don’t they know that Black Stone on a White Stone 
Was about just the two stones?”

But our friends catch up to us
And the chorus continues. 
I guess the poem rhymes in Spanish, too. 

We agree, though, that life’s 
More than sex on a deadline: 
“Like how the sun we spent our Sunday on
Doesn’t fall”, she says, “it sets.” 
And I nod, then ask for a sip 
Of her water. 

I’ve since rubbed my wings
Together in a cavern 
Then flown out ashamed.

When it rains now that we’re not together, 
I hang my head 
Back, mouth agape, 
And get carved right up. 
That’s how I’ll know it’ll be thoughtful and subtle
That’s how I’ll know it’ll be Thursday for certain 
And when it rains a day late 
The cicadas will sing: 
“After me, the aguacero.”