Franklin Park 3/28/18

The fallen fir tree flows in sap yet, Dewy beads oozing from split branches, Still healing after we proclaim it dead. I heard once that tree blood’s an ointment, So I slathered it on the self-doubt gnawed into my cuticles. I popped a lump into my mouth, too, Maple sweet and bitter bite in one…

Love makes your soul crawl out from its hiding place. — Zora Neale Hurston

Other’s smile stretches long and full, delicately-crinkled eyes radiating warmth I shudder slightly repositioning my body to cradle a new softness Other’s eyes its halogen lamps birth unimagined without incubation I smile, teeth incandescent in their returning offering my love as midwife to Other’s own emergence ~ From my 2017 Advent poetry challenge. ~ 

thinking and becoming

i have agonized and hemmed and hawed about posting on here for far too long. perhaps if i post something, i will stop agonizing about whether or not i am posting something. welcome to the experiment! this poem (and prompt) from my advent poetry challenge, written december 21st.  thinking and becoming  things I’ve thought i…

On White Anxiety: Bullet Points for My People

Or: Concrete Things to Do When You’re Scared Shitless About Being the Bad White Person Or: How to Dismantle Your Racism from the Inside, Some Unfinished Thoughts // Before you read this, read the post by Lily Luo that jiggled my own thoughts loose. Thank you, Lily, more than I know how to say. For context,…

Iyengar Level I, with Kris Manjapra

I stand making metaphorically-motivated micro-adjustments at the top of my mat Twitching and swaying, slightly, into heavier alignment Kris says when you feel the plumb line of your vertebrae perfectly stacking, Your body feels a sigh Today, my body sighed, slightly Even though I had eaten a lot of chocolate because I had forgotten to…

thursday

(Tonight) I biked poem onto pavement, Winding through 7 o’ clock congestion Too tired for bother I let lights meet Instead of sprinting to beat Legs’ aching slowness Teaching me tempo I peddled ‘nd sang A low rumble tune, Digging growls and crescendos                 out my throat, Matching…

my uterus is not a biohazard

My uterus is not a biohazard //OR// Why I am going to get birth control wearing a red supersuit flaunting a red period blood smudge.  The blood that pours, trickles, gushes and drips from my uterus is considered a biohazard. You know, the kind that they put in those sterile red plastic containers with the red cutting scythe…

their multitudes

A million asteroids of all genders called woman. Those are me. You raise an eyebrow. I raise mine. Must I remind you what woman means? Woman is the shaping of a skin, it is a face turned towards the wind, it is resilience. Woman is remembering oppression directed at that skin and that face. Woman…

to my heart melt people

[note: this post started the day after graduation and finished now]  Yesterday, wilting in sweat, to cheers I did not hear for nerves, and with feet bare to feel the ground beneath me, I walked across a stage, accepted a diploma case and hurried back to my seat. I guess that was my moment, or something….

ladies, stop apologizing

I am standing in someone’s way in the dining hall. “Sorry,” they breath softly, as they slide past me on the way to the panini press. You’re fine! “Sorry,” I hear, as an elbow gently brushes my backpack while I stand in line. Didn’t even notice!  Someone’s foot inadvertently jiggles mine under the table as they switch…

~disgusting~ bodies, speak thy power!

or: gross is the new fierce and i love rupi kaur My sweat stains and I have become intimate through long fellowship and shared struggle. I have leg hair and armpit hair and sporadic chin hairs. I have stretch marks on my thighs. Once every 50 days or so, gooey blood flows out of me for a week straight. My…

the f word

failure I. such an unassuming                          word, that such an unassuming mind-bending word such an unassuming mind-bending word that permeates my psyche claws into those ¿forgotten? cobwebbed corners of             my soul and whispers to me that failure will…