Tag Archives: pieces

Aspen Season.

Aspen season

I)

00:18: It’s over –

the rain stopped, finally.

The night’s gotten too cold,

she shivers (it must be

aspen season already).

She shakes

off water drops that

have collected beneath

the folds of her

many, many eyes.

The water drips down and

she breathes a sigh of

relief – a night breeze,

soft and sweet and a little bitter.

I think, it’s really over.

II)

00:19: Clang –

broken glass or

porcelain, maybe?

No, it was the moon.

She fell off the sky.

She fell to pieces:

how beautifully they glimmer

as they drift in

a tiny puddle of dirt –

what an odd wishing well.

I light a cigarette

and make a wish.

III)

00:20: Smoke fills the kitchen –

I don’t open a window.

I just don’t know how

to let go of things.

I let it fill the empty space

he left behind (along

with an empty promise:

see-through and

revenant like a ghost or

maybe just a nightmare);

all the emptiness

seeping out

of the walls, the sockets,

blue and quiet

like electricity.

IV)

00:21: Clang

louder this time, almost violent.

I feel a breath

in my neck, a cough:

sour and stale.

I blink, splinters in my

shivering hands (it must be

aspen season already):

Your promise – it lies in pieces and

finally, I can even see it:

Tiny holes in the dark like

fresh cuts that won’t stop bleeding.


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Piece by Piece.

As I spent some time looking through the pages of my notebook this morning, I found an unfinished poem that’s probably about a year old. And, as it sometimes happens with writing, it felt oddly appropriate at this very moment in my life – maybe even more so than back when I first started writing it. So I decided to finish it today. And that’s what I did – here it is:

Piece by Piece.

Words, words, words —

so stuck in my mouth

and then all of a sudden they fall out:

tiny milk teeth, white and edged

I must have touched you

one too many times

lost my fingerprints

all over your skin

they ran out of my hands

like sand out of shoes

it’s the curse old women

have always warned me about

I lost myself –

but does that make me free, liberated?

Now I’m no one

(to you?)

Take my hand, would you?

Or my eyes, my legs, strands of hair –

you can have a piece of me

if you don’t want it all

these are merely moving pictures

and it’s hard to hold on to something

that’s always on the move,

in motion, motion, motion

sometimes it strikes me:

we’re nothing but cold light

we’re already dead

but too busy to notice

My heart is flip book —

I —

love—

you

you

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I'm Michelle. This is my blog. I write about women and fatness, expound upon semi-coherent thoughts I have in the middle of the night, and offer tough love to those in whom I am disappointed; they are legion.