to take control into my own bare hands,
I scooped a seed out of a sweet lemon,
Lemon with rind that I thoroughly enjoyed chewing.
I put that seed into a little pot,
And watered it for weeks.
Three anticlimactic weeks passed,
and finally a little plant appeared:
Green, cute, fresh.
I keep watering it.
It keeps growing bigger,
And bigger, and bigger.
It’s all going according to plan.
Take that, life!
Going to make my own damn lemons
(in a few years)
if I manage to overcome my own curiosity
to dig the little buddy out,
risking its short and uneventful life.
Curiosity to know what exactly it looks like beneath the surface.
The One About Death
When I was five I discovered Santa.
I had a pretty good hunch he wasn’t real.
So I would whisper my Christmas wishlist under my breath,
Just so that I could call my parents out on that bullshit.
I had a big enough ego to know
I’d been a really good girl. A good enough girl
To not only deserve all my Legos,
But also a real, pocket-sized,
Dinosaur (which I knew wouldn’t happen
Unless the magic man was real,
And boy did I deserve an ancient
When I was five I discovered death.
That’s also when I found a stray cat
That would have died if it wasn’t fed.
It was a good pet for twelve years after that.
When I was five I discovered god.
And like with Santa, the whole setup
Wasn’t convincing and disappointing that someone
Would lie to you like that in the first place.
I went back to being terrified of death.
It seemed like an unfair end to things.
Twenty-two years later it still seems
Like and unfair end to things.
And I still think I deserve my raptor.
Life Imitates Art
I am resolved now
I have finally resolved to grow and to groom
My pubic hair
I shall shape into (in the following temporal progression):
“The Chaplin” (also known as, “The Dictator”)
“The Rudyard Kipling”
“The Mark Twain”
and perhaps even “The Tolstoy”
They will keep me warm at night
They will keep the sharks at bay
They will whisper that I am okay
And while my tender lady skin itches in confusion
I shall scratch it with determination
Day after day
That simple discomfort
Will ascertain that I am becoming
A better poet
How can I write about love
When the seagulls are circling this dirty patch of the shore,
Hovering above what looks like the carcass of a dove?
They circle but don’t soar.
How can you think about her
When the wind won’t stop blowing all the dust into your eyes,
When you would rather go than look upon that naked bird?
Better blind than hearing cries.
How can we dream about rain
When once hits, it always burns our precious bits of flesh?
When rain has been informed that we won’t leave and need no chains,
We always think it’s fresh.
How can she talk about breath
This easily, as if she’s ever known this rancid air?
As if she can relate…
As if she’s guessed it’s there.