Photo by Sydney Shaffer
space exploration
So I fall into continents and cars
I stretch miles to the moon
You you you are my bright blue star
This trip to magic is by far
the faint echo of my June swoon
falling into continents and cars
I want to write myself into your memoir
and serve our guests with silver spoons
You you you are my bright blue star
Let me backtrack, not go as far to say
I want to have a wedding in the heat of June
and fall into continents and cars
For now I take a crowbar
to the depths of my immune
heart, I I I will be a peach star
I sip spiked lemonade from a mason jar
and wait till noon
to fall into continents and cars
I I I will be a peach star
everywhere you go, you take yourself
“Why can’t I try on different lives, like dresses, to see which fits best and is more becoming?”
-Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath
Brooklyn is calling, telling me to come home.
I cry until my eyeballs fall out.
Here I am, raising a family in Rome.
My garden is filled with green gnomes.
I have not a single doubt! – (but)
Brooklyn is calling, telling me to come home.
My unborn child has a double X chromosome,
So I think of a name for my baby – (Scout!)
Here I am, raising a family in Rome.
I am on a tour into the Catacombs
damp and dark, my face begins to pout –
Brooklyn is calling, telling me to come home.
Maybe if I had a working phone
I would find a way to loudly shout – yet
Here I am, raising a family in Rome.
I am stuck under a dome
surrounded by a crowd.
Brooklyn is calling, telling me to come home- (but)
Here I am, raising a family in Rome.
to be so lonely
I won’t wear shoes to my wedding,
want my feet to feel the Earth’s wet dirt.
With each passing day I keep forgetting,
that one day I might not believe in heaven.
The rocks don’t hurt
so I won’t wear shoes to my wedding.
I envy the idea of mending, of sewing
bodies together – stuck by threads of a shirt.
With each passing day I keep forgetting
that one day I will be sweating
in the streets of Paris – feet burnt
yet I still won’t wear shoes to my wedding.
I sew together pink fabric, dressing
up – in my new flushed tulle skirt.
With each passing day I keep forgetting
that one day I was just seven,
eating french fries for dessert.
I won’t wear shoes to my wedding
with each day I just keep forgetting everything.
watch me become me
If I didn’t define myself for myself, I would be crunched into other people’s fantasies for me and eaten alive.
-Audre Lorde
The magicalness of being the same.
I accept all the stones they’ll throw,
no longer giving into their shame.
I write my name into an embroidery frame,
just to look in the mirror and see my cheeks glow.
The magicalness of being the same.
I am so glad I came
out. Now as open and free as a winter meadow
and no longer giving into their shame.
I stop trying to explain
myself to anyone and so I
realize the magicalness of being the same.
Now comes the part that I claim!
What so long has run away from me, although slow:
I am no longer giving into their shame.
I have waited so long and became
me, the girl who still enjoys walks in the snow –
just with the magicalness of being the same
and no longer giving into their shame.
Kindergarten 