A selection of works
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APPLE TREE
when i die bury me in his backyard,
under his apple tree
i know i could never make him proud but
maybe in eternity
side by side we can both find peace.
i dream of baseball games and ice cold pops,
of a childhood could’ve been,
diving into swimming pools –
a happy childhood would’ve been.
a penny dropping to the bottom,
i am a penny dropping to the bottom,
but i never did grant his wish.
i was good i pulled my weight
but there were things i couldn’t change,
when i die bury us side by side
so one day we’ll try again.
THERE IS STILL NOT ENOUGH TIME
there is still not enough time
to pick apart the intricate pains of history,
to speak the names of the lost and forgotten.
even as crowds drift and handshakes slip,
there is still not enough room,
to lay bare the threads of past and power,
to heal from the constant erosion of oppression.
the world goes up in flame and there is still not enough warmth,
to kindle the grief of mothers and sons and warm
the cold bodies of lost loved ones.
as if a phone screen can frame the truth and hurt
in any human way.
there is never enough words to come close to convey
how much work we have still yet to do.
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FLOWERS & DEAD THINGS
flowers growing on me
where dead things used to be.
they’re buried and gone
but never for long.
it’s an itch that can’t be scratched
and a weed that curls around
the limbs, rooting and seeding,
all the way to the bone.
compost my thoughts beneath
the skin, nurture
my mistakes within the cracks
and the creases and the weeds.
forgive the flowers for their bended
stems and weeping petals.
the curving roots tell bitter stories,
that may soon be washed out by the rain.
I pick at the dirt and try to nurture the growth,
I want the shoots to heal
these previous crimes;
let this garden be slowly reborn.
forgive yourself for the graveyards
and all you’ve buried with you.
flowers growing on my body
where dead things used to be.
DANDELIONS
A seed of doubt in one’s mind, planted, a shrivelled seed in the soil
Pushing through tender leaves, a dandelion unfurling its wings.
In the gentle wind it flutters, roots spreading and sinking
its curling tendons into the earth, hungry and unseen,
birthing seeds of woe and weight, dancing and unabating.
Crawl into veins and capillaries, subtle and uncertain,
whispering across membranes and bone marrow,
an itch underneath the skin- can’t be scratched.
A gust of wind, a subtle shudder, on and on they go,
catching in the throat and burying down through the chest,
multiplying. Parting ligaments, peeling sinew from end to end,
bending bones this way and that, growing through the cracks
an infestation, creeping through, never to settle.
Ripping at the leaves and stems, buried underneath
the debris. Fingers peeking through the petals,
a chest creaking under the weight, shaking heaving
for some air.
To fight, forever and futile underneath,
the dandelions take hold and there they keep.
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A REGARDS TO DYSPHORIA AND OTHER THINGS
I’m sinking in a body that never felt like it was mine.
Memorized the weight,
its creases and corners.
Knelt into it, an atonement,
Carried it into dreams,
omnipresent.
Under the blistering summer sun
I played with the pressure on my ribs,
an ache of a reminder.
Under the waving shadows of the willow
I recognized liberty.
And I took a hammer to this marble entrapping,
took a hammer to be free.
IS THIS HOME
You try to settle within your skin,
the home you were long given,
make your bed between the bones and sinew.
Sometimes you want to tear the greying wallpaper down,
fingernails to wall to wall, corner to corner;
Take a hammer to the floorboards
Pry out all the dead memories and set them free;
Break all the windows, lie on the broken glass,
to just let yourself be.
The locked doors and broken hallways lead nowhere.
You light a match to the dust just so you can see.
I’ll rebuild this house from ashes just to live again;
carve marble staircases from blood sweat and tears.
I’ll rebuild this house just so I can finally breathe.
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LATE NIGHT, BUS RIDES
it is quiet almost complacent on the late bus ride home,
gentle lethargy, a long day blinking to a close;
rolling past all those anonymous
stories scattered under street lamps;
the music in ears over rumbling engines, all reverb
and misplaced longing.
im still scared, still carrying the weight of the day to day,
but for now, drifting in the liminal in betweens
i leave whispered worries tangled up in the silhouettes
of darkened trees.
i lean against cold window, i let my breath fog up glass,
spelling out fading thoughts invisible to everyone but me.
stop after stop, minute after minute,
the city falls away beneath,
i leave myself nestled in the cracks of the pavement
– all temporary, dark highways home.
i’ve always found myself in the in betweens.
PONDSIDE
your wasp tattoo, pressed against my lips,
tanned hips hidden in the rolling grass,
the wind draws watercolours like palm lines across our skin.
we are pond side, buzzing mosquitos our anxieties –
but we pay them no mind, curled in the summer heat.
your body against mine like an epilogue.
unsaid words form sermons,
beating just underneath our chests;
you press two fingers against my ribs,
reading these thrumming prayers.
you can sink into me,
bury your lifelines into mine.
if you’re afraid,
then so am i.
could we follow the rolling train,
its whistling song into the night.
— run somewhere,
so we never have to be afraid again.
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OBSERVATIONS OF A STRAY THOUGHT
At 2:13 am, at the edge of consciousness, I am born.
I am swooped into the recesses of dreams and nightmares,
I dance in the cracks of the skull,
contouring the edges of forgotten memories,
I peer behind curtains to where unseen emotions lie,
ready to be born.
I float untethered between tangles of neurons,
soaring from node to node;
with a spark I fly into a niche,
a careful corner where forgotten faces,
lost moments in time, surround me in echoing,
distant whispers.
Like a gentle breeze they guide me,
towards a labyrinth of sights, sounds, smells,
mirages and patterns of light, shimmering
with the rhythm of time.
A sky of shooting stars, swirls of fireflies,
an orchestra, a symphony,
A growing crescendo, a supernova,
And then, I am freed.
I am ink on paper, and words on tongue,
a music note, a swaying song,
a gentle touch, I move along,
I am married with time, and glide from mind to mind,
From life to life, an unseen light,
I was born, and now I am breathing,
I am alive.
*originally published in Island School's Imaginings
TIME, AND AGAIN
It is the past.
It smells like stale smoke, the echoes of laughs that
were once as bright as the stars but now linger like
dust on your fingertips. It is an ancient and sunken
piano, with a distant note that echoes through the
air, an empty hymn through crumbled walls and
washed out windows;
Faded photographs, claimed by the earth, staring
longingly into the skies. It is a smile, distant and
bittersweet, the aftermath of the breeze on your skin
and the sunshine on your lips, the aftertaste of a
lingering kiss of which taste you forgot.
It is the past.
It is the present.
It smells like the sharp trace of mist at 6 am, the
splash of ice cold water on a hot summer’s day. It is
the lazy hum of bumblebees, the rustling of green
grass and a sky of travelling birdsong, a hopeful
whistle in the wind, the waving willows under a blazing sun;
Stones, skittering and dancing across the crystal
blue lake, sun beams peering around valley
corners. It is a thin shirt, damp and drying on skin,
tears rolling, cool, down dirt-stained cheeks, closed
eyes, an echoing laugh, over the mountains.
It is the present.
It is the future.
It smells like the salty tang of the sea, the ebbing
waves spread endlessly beyond, the cry of the gulls
in the distance. It is the clouds drifting between the
rolling hills, the meadow, the plains stretching
forever on, ashes washed away by the whispering rain;
A light, floating upwards past the lip of the earth,
shining forward a beaten dirt path, a river, curving
the lands through the recesses of time. It is the
voice of the skies on the horizon, it is each small
step, it is the cool dirt on calloused soles, it is eyes
lifting upwards, forwards.
It is the future.