When she is sorrowful
the skies cloud around her eyelids
and her face closes
like shutters.
When she is angry
her skin flushes
vibrant, rich crimson,
the colour of vicious sunsets
and boiled blood.
But oh, when she is happy
she puts the stars to shame
with the brightness of her smile
and none have ever composed
a sweeter melody
than her laugh.
The thing about mountains
that I admire most
is the thought that crosses one’s mind
at the summit:
the possibility that you
were as strong at the base
as you are at the top.
There’s a calm resilience
set in the curve of her spine
that’s hardened with time
and bent with patience –
it comes naturally
when dealing with a world
that erodes every defining feature
from the shape of a woman
to fit an undesired mold
of false flawlessness
in an unrelenting patriarchy.
– International Woman’s Day
The sky I’ve known my entire life
does not weep for me today;
she wraps me in her lilac embrace,
kisses my skin goodbye
and waits for me to look up
at unfamiliar skies tomorrow
and to miss her face.
The first day
after you left
I accidentally poured
two cups of coffee
the thought
of leaving yours undrunk
left me downing
two shots of vodka.
There was a party
I went to when I was sixteen
at a stranger’s house
– friend-of-a-friend’s friend –
and for the first few hours
it was a warm, golden glow
a happy and tipsy paradise
of adolescence
and cheap alcohol.
But the clock struck
a sixth or eighth or tenth drink
and stranger’s hands
– friend-of-a-friend’s hands –
bruised my flesh
so I used cheap excuses and beer
as crutches to lean on
when they reached out
a sixth or eighth or tenth time
from a third or fourth or fifth boy
whose names I couldn’t even remember.
I never said “no”;
the thought turns my skin pink
where there fingerprints
once touched me;
but I never said “yes” either,
never invited strangers
– friend-of-a-friend’s whatever –
to invade my precious
personal fucking space
and this thought
turns the boiling blood surging through my body
into a future of
abhorring alcohol
and staying home.
I wondered that night
as I threw up
my eleventh drink
whose fault it had been
and not knowing where to throw my hatred
it shadowed me
and I kept silent about it
but oh yes,
it happened to
me too.
I didn’t know
in that moment
whether I had always been
a wallflower
or whether
I had sprouted into one
after years of wilted conversations
sucked dry the soul from my roots
until I finally burst forth in protest,
blossoming my own way.
With all due respect
to Mr. Proenneke,
I have to humbly disagree
in regards to packing:
sadness does not dwell
in my carry-on.
The pages of my passport
are stamped with happy faces
blessing me with cheerful departure wishes
because they know
it does not matter to me
if where I am going
is as good as where I have been.
The very act of going
in the first place
is the heroin in my veins sir,
and if my mind is already a million miles away
exploring the unknown anything and everything
I figure I may as well join
and be damned if I’m not excited.
– a response to Richard Proenneke’s quote
My imprint is no longer
in the memory foam beside your sleeping body,
my fingerprints don’t grace your windows
blurring outside images of strangers,
my breath isn’t on top of yours
creating sweet agreements, dinner plans,
my laughter has emptied
from hallways where my photograph once hung,
my footprints have been erased,
vacuumed away with time,
my name has been scratched out
of the home you made for it in your heart
so it’s time to move out.
I do not need
to strike the match
to know that one day
I will be dancing
on your ashes.
The Tara Chronicles 