Several times I've tried writing you letters,
but the point never seemed to get through to anyone but the mailman.
I guess I used to think nothing was wrong,
but for the past few years I've been dealing with ghosts in my blood
and aliens in my head.
I watch raindrops on my windowpane as they race each other to the sill,
colliding halfway there.
I watch raindrops as they become part of the meaningless puddles on the ground,
lost in apathy.
I watch and think about how I used to love the rain,
Dad at least knew he wouldn't see them again.
The wife and two step-sons in a house
he worked two or three shifts to pay for
rot where he left them
like trash in the Louisiana sun.
There is something about the wind
Its invisible force, yet so strong,
Makes me wonder what it is,
That makes it so angry and oh so lone.
1. I come into this world screaming like a missile as it cuts the air in two.
2. Shapes, colors, time, movement, love, hate, developing from small fragments, pieced together into a quietly growing mosaic of a being.
3. I shit my pants.
4. The grape juice spills and I wail, wanting to put the sweet ambrosia liquid into my mouth but knowing that I cannot.
5. I start to daydream about a wider world, filled with mystery, filled with terror, ready to be indulged.
With water still dripping
From long skirts and white hair,
I bleed myself a piano
As old and battered as Jane Eyre.
I was buried today
my family was restless,
rustling time, the interior space
overgrown with vines.
Father would drift
we get pushed to the ropes often
we have to bounce back
dammit (it's a sad thing we always can't)
—there’s the 17-year-old with the bum ticker
Ice slithers and crunches
like a snake feeding.
I slide along, wanting
spring to start springing.