By day, I’m a woman. By night, I fight crime.
For twelve months a year I sell speedboats (part-time).
On Fridays, I hang glide. On Sundays, I scuba.
On weeknights you’ll find me fine-tuning my tuba.
I weld and do woodcrafts. I varnish and whittle.
I once made a raft with two logs, gum, and spittle.
My racquetball skills have earned me acclaim.
I’ve toured with the circus and been set aflame.
I’m accomplished in badminton, cricket, and chess.
I bait hooks and braid hair with the finest finesse.
I’ve sold out arenas. I’m nationally ranked.
I’ve been privately honored and publicly thanked.
I’ve sprinted cross-country. I’ve walked on barbed wire.
I meditate daily. I rarely perspire.
I’m an expert in Velcro, buttons, and zippers.
I’m one of the world’s Most Generous Tippers.
I used to sing backup for Cher and Madonna.
I can deftly identify flora and fauna.
I never need toothpicks, breath mints, or floss.
My face is on labels for barbecue sauce.
I synchronize swim with myself by my side.
My pep talks fill people with purpose and pride.
I burp in eight octaves; I sneeze in ten more.
My vertical leap is twelve feet off the floor.
In summer, I bobsled. In winter, I picnic.
I’ve never felt lonely, nostalgic, or homesick.
My opera vibrato can shatter glass panes.
My quietest whisper can marshal in planes.
My abandon is reckless, my emotions, unbridled.
My loyalty’s never been questioned or rivaled.
I speed read, I slow dance, I pillage, I plunder.
I harness tsunamis, volcanoes, and thunder.
At high tide, I tie-dye. At low tide, I limbo.
At full moon I balance on cliff sides, akimbo.
I never get nauseous, lightheaded, or queasy.
My lack of fear often makes others uneasy.
My vision is perfect. My teeth are unstained.
My muscles have never been torn, tight, or strained.
I invented the comma. I trademarked the pen.
I can mentally calculate dollars to yen.
My skin repels splinters, cuts, and abrasions.
I’ve seen the Space Station on several occasions.
I’ve published a volume of essays on cheese.
I’ve colonized upwards of eight thousand bees.
I’ve captured twelve outlaws. I’ve captained three ships.
I’ve guided the moon through a lunar eclipse.
I once moved a mountain through telekinesis.
I’m currently writing a thousand-page thesis.
My graffiti moves public officials to tears.
I’m new on the scene yet revered by my peers.
I churn my own butter. My cookies don’t crumble.
I amaze myself daily. But above all—I’m humble.
“Sanctuary is a word which here means a small, safe place in a troubling world. Like an oasis in a vast desert or an island in a stormy sea.”
—A Series of Unfortunate Events (2004)
//
a nonet
//
When the world feels broken, I cocoon
deeper into the creaky swing
and watch the sun lick the stone
steps covered in green moss
and the evils are—
for a moment—
quietly
kept at
bay.
The midnight bell tolls half past three,
the sun glows ghostly blue.
It’s been two weeks of potpourri,
of garbage men and glue.
My sinking ship admits defeat;
my flotsam finds new shores.
I stand me up, my soul to take, and
pass through mirrored doors.
The sand falls from my eyes like silk;
my fingers find its grit.
The morning air is dry as milk and
wry with wag and wit.
I wander through the forks and lanes and
pause to praise the dunes.
I tread light on the spikes and stains and
cradle the balloons.
The broken bread is weeping gold,
the light bulb blinks and swoons.
Each has no use for life or noose,
for deserts or lagoons.
The diamond ring is crowned as king,
the crossword clues stroll past.
The porcupine has lost his spine—
but found true love at last.
The ferryman forgets his way and
asks for my advice.
I offer him to stop and stay—
he gladly offers twice.
His hands recall two splintered oars;
his palm prints speak my name.
I’ve traced them in a life before and
held them just the same.
He speaks of things too good for truth all
just beyond the dawn.
He urges me to waste my youth yet
must be moving on.
My feet are weights too bronze to lift;
my cartoon heart deflates.
His boat unanchors sure and swift and clean,
like dinner plates.
The siren song of worlds gone is
ringing in my ears.
It echoes fast, too long to last—
and yet it does for years.
The trees rain slow with heavy sighs,
the books yawn spine to spine.
The songbird masquerades as wise and
bathes itself in brine.
Exhaustion hits me like a clock,
the rivers fill with rage.
Each mountain marks the sky like chalk—
each fortnight lasts an age.
The hedgehogs guide me through the hills;
my teardrops clink and crack.
The swordfish with the solid gills is
beckoning me back.
I say goodbye to smells and sounds and
paths too long to take.
I sniff farewell to grass and grounds and
hearts too hard to break.
The evening stars hang low and sleek and
smartly out of reach.
The blackness hits my salty cheek, my feet,
the briny beach.
The waters flood me end to end;
the waves creep blue and deep.
They hug me like a long lost friend and
lull me, soft to sleep.
I took my anxiety out to dinner.
I let her order the most expensive thing
on the menu, watched her dab her napkin
against the corners of her mouth.
When the bill came, I dutifully reached
for the little leather book.
When it was time for bed, I tucked her in.
I left the light on for her, crept out of the room,
avoided the creaky spot on the floor.
In the morning I left her a note
on the counter: Let’s do this again.
I leave her at home during business hours,
hoping she doesn’t mind.
I leave her in the car while I run errands,
the window always cracked.
Lately, I’m experimenting with leaving her alone more often.
Leaving her out.
Leaving her in the dark.
Leaving her to her own devices.
I leave word that things will be changing.
Tonight, I left her with a sitter.
I ordered her a pizza, rented a video,
told her not to worry.
She called me, frantic—I’d left the number taped to the fridge—
When are you coming home?
a pantoum
//
It’s funny how we all start off as strangers
in the lives of every person we meet—
once background clutter in someone else’s life story,
not in their table of contents or index.
In the lives of every person we meet,
we might go overlooked at first.
Not in their table of contents or index,
we aren’t so crucial to their plot and development.
We might go overlooked at first,
as a coworker, a mail-carrier, a woman on the train.
We aren’t so crucial to their plot and development—
until that moment they decide we might be.
As a coworker, a mail-carrier, a woman on the train,
we write our own stories without much concern for theirs—
until that moment they decide we might be
just what their own story is missing.
We write our own stories without much concern for theirs,
never thinking we would ever be
just what their own story is missing;
we begin taking up pages in someone else’s book.
Never thinking we would ever be
remembering birthdays other than our own,
we begin taking up pages in someone else’s book,
learning things about them that only they know.
Remembering birthdays other than our own,
we take on new responsibilities as major characters—
learning things about them that only they know.
They begin to appear in our chapters, too.
We take on new responsibilities as major characters,
once background clutter in someone else’s life story.
They begin to appear in our chapters, too.
It’s funny how we all start off as strangers.
The scent of judgement filled the room as
the welcome wagon smoked and cackled.
I stood amongst the beauty for hours,
disgusted with its crippling narcissism,
reflecting on what was left.
Life’s not always fair, is it? But
hold fast. You’ll only experience
momentary discomfort.
And then it will be silent, and
the calm will start to rise.
A cloud coated in lacquer,
slippery and shiny to the taste.
Once, in the fervor, we ran out of apples—
and the fruit bowl never forgave us.
an abecedarian
//
Apathy, anarchism, an ache for angst, art, nothing, everything in a
beat generation. Brits and lit and bands that hit the stage—brazen, brash, bold,
club scenes with crass teens. Culture clashing, conservative crushing
DIY-ers in Doc Martens doing dirty drugs in an
economic recession. The end of an era, the emergence of a new one
featuring fuck-you fashion and frustration. Free-thinking females in fishnets screaming in
garage bands against government tyranny. Groupies, glam rockers, greasers,
hippie-hating higher thinkers repping
individualism and irreverence. Idolizing ideology infused with intentionality—
just like Johnny Rotten and other jerks with jagged haircuts.
Kinesthetic kinkiness
locked into a leather jacket lifestyle, saying loud is good but louder is better.
Minimalism over materialism, mohawks over mundanity, these
non-conforming nihilists who were notoriously notorious—
outcasts on the outskirts, society’s overlooked and outspoken
philosophical protestors, previously known as punks.
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate
—William Shakespeare, Sonnet 18
//
Shall I compare thee to a winter’s chill?
Thou art more spiteful and more desolate.
Black winds do bite and soundly echo shrill,
Yet winter’s lease is but three months of hate.
Her ice so lacks the depths of lasting scorn—
And through her bitter gale one sees the dawn.
Unlike his snarl which seeks but to forewarn:
That any trace of human grace is gone.
And so prepared are we to feel her sting,
That we can weather any yearly war.
His shriveled soul is such a spoiled thing—
Which seeks the query of his gall: wherefore?
‘Til seasons break their tried and tested course—
So shall thee live, envenomed, past remorse.
Be rebellious and break curfew. Lose your shoe in the process. The right man will return it if you give him some time. Ignore the fact that he won’t recognize you right away.
Read books. Confront jerks and angry mobs with equal ease. Let a monster treat you horribly. Respect his flowers and his furniture. Give him a second chance. Let him surprise you.
Embrace paleness. Have short male friends who are purely platonic. Accept companionship from woodland creatures. Avoid apples.
Live underwater and befriend aquatic animals. Go against the current. Be curious. Find your sea legs on dry land. Lose your voice in the process. Find a man who convinces you it’s worth the effort.
Own a tiger. Distrust men who have goatees. Trust men who have pet monkeys. Appreciate carpets in new ways.
Fight with honor. Recognize that sometimes a wrong thing is in fact a right thing. Become one of the guys. Do not forget who you are.
Sling arrows and sass like second nature. Focus on family because they always come first.
If all else fails, get a dog. Move away from large halls and buy a house in the country. Lose yourself in the process. Throw away fairytales. Wear jeans with holes because ball gowns are stuffy. Shirk your duties. Carve out a life that’s exciting and new. Crown yourself and your canine. He’s your prince.
Treat yourself like royalty.
Dance in the flames of a disastrous relationship, one where they never let you choose the movie and forget to pick you up from work four times in a row. Run under cold water.
Singe yourself on poisonous friendships. Let them dismiss you when you’ve done nothing wrong. Give them your goodwill when they don’t deserve it. Fight together, sulk alone. Commiserate begrudgingly. Apply ice.
Remain motionless as family problems engulf you in clouds of smoke. Survive divorce and playdates through willpower alone. Think childbirth won’t be that bad, then scream like hell. Break dishes when you find out you didn’t get that promotion. Buy new ones at the dollar store because concert tickets are more important. (Remember to wear oven mitts.)
Fantasize about slashing your co-worker’s tires. Ask them out instead and get rejected. Accept the defeat and humiliation. It will make you love yourself more. Self-soothe as needed.
See your parents grow older. Stroke their frail hands and kiss their wrinkly foreheads. Watch them die, little by little, then all at once. Feel your world burn. Choke on the ashes.
Check yourself in and play with the hospital bracelet. Permit the bandages to loop endlessly, endlessly. Carry yourself to safety. Extinguish all thoughts of what if and remember: even the fiercest of phoenixes must first resolve to become dust.
