Mending—Metamorphosis?

I fear, she said,
That broken
hearts may mend
like broken bones.
That, when
broken
they mend
stronger.

Which means,
she mused,
That the act
that breaks this
heart anew
must be
correspondingly
more terrible than
each act
that broke this heart
before.

But, would that
also mean
a heart re-broken
may harden
to stone?

Un-made

Today was meant to be
An Anniversary.

I took what I wanted

While I walked
In that terrible Valley

Two years ago.
I said, Yes,

In a place
where the only
thing I heard was
No.

But today is not joyful.
There is nothing to celebrate.
Today
Is a day
Of mourning.
A day for grief.

I pierced my skin.
I cut off my hair.
I seek to drown
In smoke and vapor.

Today I allow the part of me that said Yes to die.

I do not walk the same barren path
That lay before me two years syne.

This is a new waste,

Here after climbing
The Mountains of Maybe
And, foolishly,
Keeping my sights

On the summit,

Tumbling headlong into
The Desert of Never.

I want to turn my back on this journey

That has tried me
Judged me,
And found me lacking.

But to leave,
I must bury
The remains of my heart
At the base of the Tree

That marks the entrance

To Beyond.

Pet Peeves, part 1 -- Grammar (mostly pronouns)

I am a grammarian. I am. I adore grammar. I cannot believe that I did not learn to diagram a sentence until I was at university, but unfortunately I grew up in an educational system that kept switching back and forth between phonics and 'whole language learning,' so grammar was barely even on the radar. I learnt the basics (nouns, verbs, adjectives, adverbs, prepositions), and sort of learnt when it was proper to use 'I' rather than 'me,' although the latter came with a 'rule of thumb' explanation rather than an actual grammatical rule to follow. Had I learnt how to diagram a sentence then, I would have clearly understood when it was appropriate to use 'I' versus 'me,' because I would have understood the difference between nominative (or subjective, in common English) and objective cases. I would have been able to describe when it is appropriate to use 'who' rather than 'whom' to my friend before the SATs more clearly than 'use whom if it has a preposition in front of it.'

There is a certain grace and elegance to a diagrammed sentence. A sentence diagram shows exactly what part of speech each word is, and how as this part of speech or that part of speech, each word interacts with all the other words in the sentence. Is the pronoun referring to someone the subject of the sentence? Is it the object of a verb or a preposition? Is the sentence written in passive voice or active voice? All of these questions are answered easily when one can see the spider-web-like diagram that shows that THIS word is the subject and THAT word is the object, and THIS word is a preposition and THAT adjective modifies THIS word or THAT phrase. It eliminates the grey areas of understanding in what can be a complicated and twisted language. But, as I said before, I did not get to see this elegant way of explaining grammar until I was grown. So I learnt 'rules of thumb' instead. The most common rule of thumb was used to determine whether to use 'I' or 'me' in a sentence. It was quite simple really: If speaking of someone in addition to oneself, drop the extra person, as if one was talking simply about oneself. If, solo, 'I' sounds better, use 'I;' If 'me' sounds better, use 'me.' That's it. No need to understand that 'I' is nominative (or subjective) case, or that 'me' is objective case. Just drop the other person, and use the pronoun that sounds right solo. (E.g. Your mother and I thought it best. 'I' is correct because it would be correct to say, 'I thought it best.' || It is a gift from your sister and me. 'Me' is correct because it is correct to say, 'It is a gift from me.') Many persons seem to struggle with this (or, more likely, simply forego the bother of figuring out which pronoun is correct), and instead use 'I' as a default. This probably stems from the fact that, as children, it was (incorrectly) badgered into their heads that 'ME IS ALWAYS WRONG,' which is not the case at all, but seems that way because of most children's proclivity to say shit like, 'Me and Johnny got into trouble today.' So persons default to using 'I' in all cases, which sounds just as stupid as misusing 'me.'

Now, as an avid grammarian, it is natural that such things irritate the piss out of me. I can find it in my heart to forgive such transgressions (grudgingly), because the fact is, most persons cannot find their way to BEGIN to diagram a sentence, much less understand such concepts as 'nominative case.' What really pisses me off are the persons who parade around with an air of smug superiority because they are oh-so-much-smarter-than-you, who get this shit wrong, and then wig-the-fuck-out when it is pointed out to them that, yes, dear, you may have a degree in English, but even you do not seem to know the difference between nominative and objective cases. I know, because I gave up that fight a long time ago with someone who no longer matters. There is nothing quite so annoying (nor quite so laughable) as someone who is convinced she is smarter than everyone else, and continues to disprove it every time she opens her damn fool of a mouth.

And do not even get me STARTED on misuse of reflexive pronouns, or the fact that APOSTROPHES HAVE NEVER EVER IN THE HISTORY OF EVER HAD THE POWER TO MAKE A WORD PLURAL.

The girl with the generous heart

Once upon a time there was a girl with a very generous heart. She was not very pretty, nor was she very lovable, but she was clever and loyal. However, she was not wise. And so she gave her heart away too often and foolishly.

One day the girl met a bird. The bird was very pretty, but he had a crooked wing and could not fly. The girl with the generous heart took the bird in and fed him and protected him from the things that prey on the weak and the lame.

The girl kept the bird near her, sharing everything she had. Many people asked the girl why she cared for a bird that could not fly, and the girl with the generous heart always responded the same way: ‘This bird is my friend. Yes, he cannot fly, so I protect him. His friendship is more than enough repayment for the little things I share.’ The girl with the generous heart worked hard, making sure that there was always enough so that the bird with the crooked wing was well cared for and happy.

The girl saved every penny she made and eventually she had enough to buy the bird a new wing. She went to a shop where she could purchase a new wing, and she picked out one that was beautiful, like the bird who was her friend. The new wing was very expensive, but the girl with the generous heart did not hesitate to buy it. It was perfect and she was so excited to get home to show the bird his new wing.

However, when the girl with the generous heart got home and showed the bird what she bought, the bird with the crooked wing flew into a rage. He said terrible, hurtful things to the girl with the generous heart. The bird with the crooked wing accused the girl of secretly hating him, of being ashamed of him, and of wanting a new friend, because the only reason to give the bird a new wing would be so he could fly away. The bird said that the girl with the generous heart must not really love him, and that she must think he is not good enough to love with his crooked wing. He said that if she really loved him she would accept his crooked wing and that the new wing she bought for him was just a way of saying that he would only be lovable if he were not broken.

The girl with the generous heart did not know what to do; she had only wanted to give her friend a gift, a beautiful gift that would make him happy. She left the new wing on the table near where the bird was perched in the corner, glaring at her, and she left the house. She hid for a time in the woods and she cried. When she could cry no more, and the sun was starting to set, the girl went back to the house.

The bird with the crooked wing was gone. As was the new wing the girl had bought for him. There was no note, no explanation. The girl with the generous heart would never see the bird again. But she could not forget all the terrible things the bird had said to her.

The girl with the generous heart was clever enough to know that it was her heart that had gotten her into this trouble. And so the next day, the girl with the generous heart went deep into the woods. She took her heart from her chest and buried it at the foot of a tree.

Ever since that day, the girl no longer had a generous heart. She became reclusive and lonesome, and she always remembered what the bird had said to her. She never looked for the tree where she buried her heart, and she lived a long and lonely life, her one small comfort the knowledge that she could never be so foolish again as to give away her heart where it would not be reciprocated.

Fear is the mind-killer

What it all came down to was fear. She was so dreadfully afraid. The fear pressed itself against her chest, a hot, heavy weight that crushed her, making it impossible to breathe. It wrapped itself around her fluttering heart, infecting it, poisoning her blood as it wended its way through her limbs, causing them to tremble and weaken. Slowly it reached her brain, infecting her mind and paralyzing her thoughts. As the poison seeped inside, coating her brain like an oil spill, all hope seemed lost.

The fear made it impossible to distinguish truth from lies, and it made her completely vulnerable. It stripped her of her defenses and laid her bare to the lies that were constantly whispering, whispering, whispering in the back of her mind. Fear disabled the filter she developed to silence those voices, ghosts of the past, and the whispering became an unbearable roar, screaming in her mind, drowning out the clear soft voice of reason in the deafening crescendo...

an old piece

I remembered writing this years ago, and it seemed pertinent recently. So now I am posting it here after it collected dust on my much older blog.

I have grown and matured so much since then, and the broken relationship that this addressed is mended and better. But it was still a step for me.

[untitled]

What is there left to do
When the flow of words
From one vessel to the next
Has dried up
And there is nothing
Left to say?

What is there left to do
When the emptiness
Takes the place
Of that which was full
Of life
But now is nothing more than
A void?

06/03/2005

Disengage

A smarter girl than I would know
How not to sound so keen.
With all the fool that I have been,
Why must I let it show?

Can't keep my eyes demurely downcast,
My breath even and slow;
Or quell the excitement that starts to blow
Tingles up my spine, fast

Overcoming my good senses
Exactly like a blast
Of howling, icy wind, a vast
Assault on my defenses.

I want strong walls around my heart:
Fortress-like pretenses--
Razor-ribbon and barbed wire fences,
But I have not the art.

*****

And so I get much too invested
In a glance, a touch, a kiss,
And I am often prone to miss
When my interest ought be arrested.

08/08/2011

Smaller than a comma, insignificant as a cough

She called you a 7. That is all you are.
Reduced to a mere number,
A single digit. Just two lines drawn
By hands that are impartial
In assessing you.

I do not fear a number. An abstraction.
And more the fool I,
For ever thinking I should.

02/08/2011

Now... Fight.

This entry disappeared, then suddenly reappeared as a draft. I will be doing a rewrite/edit of it eventually.

So this entry has been a long time coming. I have been meaning to write it and I have started writing it and not finished and now it is going to be written. I'm writing it. I am.

I saw Sucker Punch a while ago. And I had read a lot about it, I had seen the adverts, and I was aware, marginally, of the 'controversy' surrounding the film. Now I am weighing in with my own opinion.

Sucker Punch is far from a perfect film. Perfect films are so rare that I sometimes forget they exist. Near perfect is a wonderful place to be; Sucker Punch isn't that either.

It is, however, a film that made me think; one that lingered, long after I had walked out of the theatre. It affected me in a profound way, and I am still thinking about it, more than a month later.

One of the notable things about Sucker Punch is that it is a layered film. To use a term popularized by Douglas Hofstadter (and made trendy by hipster pseudo-intellectuals), it is a very meta film: the experience of the storyline in the film is an abstraction of itself. It is a story within a story within a story (at times) and the viewer is drawn down into these layers and then pulled back up again to the surface; everything that happens in each story happens in all of them, but in different manifestations and with different immediate consequences. This does not, however, dilute the plot (which seems, on the surface, to be a bit thin, but is mostly designed as a vehicle for making a statement). The plot is merely a device the writer uses to make a commentary on the condition of the human experience - it gives enough conflict for his main character to do something while she struggles through her own internal trials. Each of the layers offers a different way for her mind to address the very real struggle in which she finds herself, to learn her own strengths and weaknesses, and to decide how she is going to live: is she going to fight or is she going to die?

This film is yet another in a long line of female-led action films, and yet it does not feel the same as many of its predecessors in the genre. The goal of this film is not simply to glorify femininity and to make strong women appear sexy (though it does both of these things to a greater or lesser extent). The goal of this film is to create an awareness of self, using the self-discovery and self-awareness of the characters to illustrate that point. The main character, Baby Doll, starts out as a weak, abused, helpless figure. She is abused by her stepfather; she fails to protect her sister; she is placed in a situation where she has no power and no control over her life. And so she must escape, within her own head. And yet, in the place to where she has escaped, her mind turns against her there as well, creating a mirror of her real world. So she must escape again, going deeper into her mind; each escape gives her more control, more clarity, a more definitive picture of the struggle she is facing. As she goes deeper into her mind, she gains more control over her surroundings: as a patient in the institution, she is almost completely helpless, but as a dancer in a bordello, she has power over men; however, as a dancer, she is still subject to the club owner and her own madame, so she escapes while she dances, to a steampunk/fantasy WWII battle scenario, complete with zombies and dragons.

The third layer is the most obvious of the three with regard to Baby Doll's power - her weapons are tangible and concrete. Her enemy is clear, her mission is spelled out for her in no uncertain terms: she and her team are fighting a war and the enemy is known. Baby Doll's power lies not only in her own ability to use her weapons, but in the loyalty of her team--they all stand up with her and fight beside her. With all of them working together, they are able to fight against the very obvious enemy: Steampunk Zombie Nazis (because what film doesn't benefit from killing Nazis?). While being the most fantastic, this is also the most straightforward of the three layers of Baby Doll's internal struggle.

The second layer, in the bordello, is (slightly) more subtle. Baby Doll must rely more on her wits and her relationships, arming herself figuratively rather than literally. The evil which she is fighting is also more subtle, because she is in a situation where, although the evil is clear to the audience, within the world of the narrative, it is accepted and supported by the social structures surrounding it. So rather than fighting a clear battle where the enemy is marked as ENEMY, Baby Doll must fight against a system using less obvious means. It is cunning, not force, that must be wielded against the nefarious system to free the girls from their captivity. The thing that has been noted frequently as problematic is the number of attempted rapes in this particular layer. Some have argued that Zach Snyder must have a rape fantasy to have incorporated this motif so strongly in his film. I would argue, though, that it is exactly the opposite. At no time during this film did I feel that the filmmaker's goal was to condone the objectification of women. In fact, every time that any of the antagonists do objectify any of the female characters, the response the scenes are intended to evoke is disgust and horror. All of the men who force themselves on the women in this film are portrayed as disgusting, brutal, and evil. In a genre that is known for objectifying women, the deliberate objectification of the characters is made to be wholly disgusting and unacceptable. That is not to say that this film does not objectify its female characters. It does, to a certain extent. Anything that presents female sexuality to gain attention objectifies women; but in the case of how the women are portrayed in this film there is a distinction made between complicit objectification (women knowing that their sexuality can get them what they want) and involuntary objectification (men treating them as if they are merely chattel). The former is more acceptable because it involves the choice of the woman to be objectified--she is choosing to use her body or her sexuality to her advantage. The latter is completely unacceptable because it is a scenario in which she has no control, and something is being taken from her by force.

Overall, the ending of the film was both predictable and unexpected. From the very beginning, when Baby Doll makes her first escape (while sitting in the chair with the doctor poised over her with the spike), the audience knows how this is going to end. There is no doubt that she is in a situation from which she cannot escape. However, her escape would be superfluous - she has proved she already knows how to escape; indeed she already has. The world inside her head is what has allowed her to continue on in the face of the horrors to which she is subjected. But the twist comes when the audience realizes that the focus has shifted seamlessly; Baby Doll is suddenly the supporting character, and Sweet Pea is the actual protagonist. Baby Doll makes her escape metaphorically, but it is through her strength and through her tenacity that she has opened the world for another to make her escape literally. Baby Doll fights in her mind; Sweet Pea must fight in the real world. And it is through Sweet Pea that Baby Doll's legacy will continue - she has given Sweet Pea all the weapons she needs. Now all Sweet Pea has to do is Fight.

The final message of the film is simple and clear, and it is neither meta nor esoteric. It is universal, and it is important. This world is filled with monsters and evil--sometimes the monsters are clear, sometimes they're insidious; sometimes the evil is the system itself. It does not do to lie down and give in; it does not do to claim weakness and become complicit. Becoming self-aware is the first step in this struggle; within are the weapons needed to aid in the struggle. Self-awareness equips the mind and the soul. As Sweet Pea said: You have all the weapons you need. Now, FIGHT.

A Demon and Mutants and Russians, oh my

Just one thing first: I love Beast when he turns blue.

Having seen the new X-Men film recently, I found it both wonderful and problematic. It suffers from the same problem all X-Men films prior to this have (too many characters, not enough screen time), but the problems I saw with this film went beyond that.

The basis for this story is the friendship and then the distance between Professor X and Magneto. The necessary development of this friendship is sparked by the common enemy faced in Sebastian Shaw (and the clever explanation of the Cuban Missile Crisis). However, for being the entire point (or nearly the entire point) of the film, it is very thin and not well written. I cannot fault either Michael Fassbender or James McAvoy for their performances. Both men are wonderful actors, but even the best actors can do only so much with a bad script. I find Magneto's characterization to be the less problematic of the two. He is given a very clear history, a reason for his rage and hatred. He is almost fully 3-dimensional. He is a character with a clear origin, his conflict is very explicit and easy to understand (and with which to sympathize), and what drives him is simple and unambiguous. His is a story about revenge. Fassbender plays the character with subtlety and nuance. He has a very clear motivation, but he does not let the character he is playing become a caricature. The rage that drives him gives his character focus and clarity. He is single-minded but not innately cruel. He saves his savage cruelty for those he feels have wronged him: the man who killed his mother; the banks that facilitated the Nazi theft of Jewish gold, livelihoods, names; the men who fled justice for the atrocities they committed. But when it comes to others like him (other mutants), Magneto does not take out his irrepressible rage and his hatred for humanity on them. He controls himself; what drives him does not dehumanize him. Fassbender's portrayal of Magneto is often wide-ranging and yet he is not over the top or campy in how he plays the character. He feels real, genuine and sympathetic. Charles Xavier, however, is a pale and paltry character in comparison.

Xavier's introduction is so narrow and brief compared to that of Magneto. The scene feels to be simply a placeholder--a brief catalytic blurb to explain the presence of Raven (Mystique) later in his life as a friend/companion. He seems to be a sweet little boy, but there is no substance to the introduction, no explanation as to his nature, or how he copes with what he knows to be is his difference. As a young man, he is little better. His mutation lends itself to a very superficial explanation as to why he researches the nature of human mutation, but he feels to be a caricature rather than a fully fleshed person. His motivations are never explained, nor is what drives him. He turns into this big cuddly feel-good character who appears to have empathy with everyone, but he lacks subtlety and depth. He bonds with Magneto, but there is never any evidence that he gets anything out of the relationship. Repeatedly through the film he refers to Magneto as 'my friend,' but there is never any true development of that friendship. He fishes Magneto out of the water and all of a sudden they're best buds. There is no explanation as to what binds them to one another; Xavier does not have clear motivations or goals, nor does he have any real reason for being there other than he is. McAvoy plays the character as well as he is able, and he does drag up what is inherently a badly written character, but there is a point where not even a virtuoso performance would give the character any more than is written on the page.

There were other, peripheral aspects of the film that were admirable. Especially the gathering of mutated young people, which lent itself well to discussion of their mutation as a parallel to the natural awkwardness and feelings of Otherness that everyone experiences while going though the painful experience of adolescence. Each of the young mutants feels alone and isolated because of how different they are. Each is trying to hide or to fit in, and they struggle with the dichotomy of being fascinated by one another's differences and wanting nothing more than to be normal. For the first time in their lives they're among people like them (or as unlike them) and they can truly be themselves. The scene in the lounge where they show off each of their powers is beautiful because they're kids being kids, but they're so different from 'real' people that it makes the feelings of being different that they're experiencing more universal.

One of the most moving and intriguing parts in the scene is when Angel Salvadore says that she would rather have men look at her without her clothes on than to look at her the way the government agents did when they were teasing the 'freaks.' This is an interesting commentary on the nature of self-objectification and ostracism. When Angel voluntarily objectifies herself (dancing), she is in control of the situation. As much as she may hate some of her customers, she is in a position where it is (at least apparently) her choice. However, when she is ridiculed by the men at the compound, it is a kind of attention over which she has no control, and that is deliberately malicious. Angel exemplifies the need to be in control, and how not being in control is what makes one a victim. She was not victimized in her previous line of work, but to be made helpless to stop the ridicule and the reality of the social rejection is unbearable.

Mystique later has a similar series of moments with Hank McCoy and Magneto. Her relationship with Hank starts out promising--he is fascinated by her mutation, and having a physical deformity of his own, they relate well to one another in their desire to look 'normal.' However, it is Magneto's stance on the opposite side of the argument that is wonderful and truly beautiful. When he calls Mystique out on dividing her focus between her appearance and any other task at hand, forcing her to revert to her natural blue form, she is puzzled and conflicted. Hank's rejection of her natural blue form reinforces what Magneto is trying to show her--she is torn between the idea that she is beautiful and unique, that she shouldn't have to hide or be ashamed, and the fact that the one person whom she thought would understand and accept her exactly as she is tells her that her natural form will never be beautiful. The culmination of these moments in the bedroom scene with Magneto is breathtaking. When he looks at her and demands to see the real her and not some facsimile she thinks he will find appealing, and when he looks at her in her true form and deems her 'perfection,' is one of the most moving moments in the film.

That is the most important message I think these films are trying to convey: self-acceptance. Yes, these are a franchise that are built on comic books and made to please the fans, but the writers sometimes are getting things right. They're allowing (some of) the characters to explore what it really means to be human. That is the whole point of the genre of science fiction. It gives us an Other to show how we're united in our humanity. This particular franchise is about how we're all connected, we're all important, and we're all unique. And accepting that about ourselves is the first step toward understanding and tapping our full potential.



On another, lighter critical note: I really wish that Riptide and Azazel had actual speaking parts (I'm not sure that fewer than 10 words counts as a true 'role'), and I disliked how Azazel's name was pronounced (as a variation on an Hebraic name, the emphasis would be on the first syllable, not the middle one).

The Red King, a contemplation

Red King. Supplanter. Your names shed more light on the effect you had on me than months of fragmented pondering and writing have offered. You came into my life unexpectedly. I invited you in, it's true, but my perception of you had very little to do with the reality I was to encounter. You took me by surprise; a neat trick, while I was looking right at you.

You were an earthquake--you hit me hard, suddenly. I missed the telltale warning signs. And you shook my world, rocked me to and fro and shattered me with exquisite precision.

The more I think of you, the more I understand--the bits of clarity that dribble though to my conscious mind. I understand the fear--delicious and intense, trickling down my spine like lava. You terrified me and transfixed me; for you I would have stayed in that desolate wasteland I so hated. You inverted the poles on me, altered the constellations. All my instincts were pulling me north, pushing me north, dragging me, coaxing me, calling me, cajoling me. But three weeks with you and I lost my sense of direction. You were a magnet, drawing me to you. You became my north, and that frightened me.

The excitement, the desire, the pleasure and the nervousness--all vying for first place in my conscious mind. Around you I could be simultaneously so nervous I could vomit and so happy I was dizzy. I wanted you. I'd forgotten what it was like to want so much, to be filled, consumed, to burn constantly with want.

After the Man, I thought I had shut myself off to that, to the wanting. Perhaps I had, to protect myself--a sort of survival instinct. Or maybe since the Man, after I had doffed my mourning, I simply hadn't encountered anyone who could fill me with electricity and fire, till you. But then you sauntered into my life and devastated me with laughter, with delight. Your merest glance was enough to make me ignite, your lightest touch enough to make me go up in flames.

Earth supports fire: it feeds it, stirs it up, lets it consume and grow and swell. An earthquake can stir dying embers into an inferno.

You were unexpected. And then you were gone. But I am grateful for the all too brief time we had, for the three intoxicating weeks (ironic, I know). You weren't trying; that's what made it all the more intense. But the embers you found still glowing deep within me, sheltered from the world, from the lovers taken and left, from everyone since the Man, that your clever hands (and mouth) stirred back into a blazing beacon, embers I had thought long since extinguished... You brought me back to life, to awareness. You filled me with hope.

I mourn losing you. And I know I have not finished mourning the might-have-been. But I would not trade a single moment spent with you--frenzied or fraught--to spare myself that piercing pain.

You proved I am still alive.

Thank you, Red King.

The Red King, a fragment

I had thought there was nothing left to find--
When the Man had left, the fire
Dwindled, and all there was where
Once I had blazed like a beacon
On a foggy night
Lay ashes and memories.

But his hands, so roughly gentle
Found among the ashes
A dimly glowing ember
And coaxed it into something
More than a slightly
Smoldering memory.

My Red King moved me like the earth,
Shifted my world
Inverted the poles
My trusty compass always pointed North
Due North
Drew me onward up the coast
And suddenly, I was being pulled
In a new direction--like
A sailor with a new polestar.

Un-love

‘I love you – have always loved

you,’ he whispered softly into my

ear, his breath against my neck

hot and sticky, like his words, while unseen

hands like razors clawed at me,

caught at my clothes, severing

seams and slicing through layers

of fabric to slide smoothly into

my skin.  ‘I love you – can’t you see?’ he

asked as fingers curled around cut and

bloody flesh to tear strips of me

from me.  He stripped me bare, cut away

all that protected me, and took what he

saw and shattered it with vitriol.

‘This thing we have is good, so good,’

he chanted while my blood ran down

his clutching claws, pooling and

clotting in the divots in my rent

flesh.  ‘So good,’ he panted as he sucked

my essence out through my mouth, opened

in a silent scream; ‘So good,’ he breathed

as I curled in on myself, trying just

to disappear; ‘So good,’ he moaned as I lay

limp and lifeless.  He did not see the husk

he left behind, but keeps returning to it

and sees only the vibrant thing it once

was – the thing destroyed by his love.

And he wonders, How can I still not

love him back?

10/01/2011

The price of broken promises

‘I love you – have always loved

          you,’ he said, whispering, whispering

     into the soft pink shell of my ear.

But as the words touched the delicate drum

               they shattered into a thousand tiny

          fragments of glass and tickled and cut

     at the soft flesh against which they rubbed.

So I tilted my head, questioningly

               at him.  And as my head tilted

         broken promises came tumbling

     out of my ear, silvery and shining

red with blood.

10/01/2011

A Miscalculated Risk

Walking among the dead in the rain
With you was the first time I had walked
Those paths in years.  I had forgotten how
Serenely the dead sleep
Below the sodden soil.

Walking with space between us
Felt easy and natural--there was nothing
Drawing us together but the air
Of familiar unfamiliarity: our generation
drawn together by lines on screens.

I watched you that night in the mist,
Your glasses splattered with rain--the same rain
running down my neck.  I had peeled
My layers off and dripping stood
Under the falling sky in an undershirt.

You watched the clouds roiling
And retching their innards.  You looked
Everywhere but the twelve short inches
Down to meet my eyes.  But you smiled
Brilliantly, blue eyes shining black.

You were a Known-Unknown, and I was compelled
By your energy, like iron to a lodestone
Leading to my leaning forward, chin up
Lips parted, head tilted.  And I took
A miscalculated risk.

The sums didn't match.

06/01/2011