this is the black line for your legal name pie-cutter veins-- pen-leak your legal name we sat--marble notebook line-conjuring born blue-retainer teeth to fix a name your thumb prints migrated to wing-span knees abandoned geese inhabit your last name mother with her furious paperwork-- the birth certificate gnawing your name these audacious snow children: self-naming fear me black feathered & illegal named
Uncategorized
03/02
the planets you carried the solar system on the surface of a CD-- made two-dimensional orbit-- rainbow refraction-- replacing gravity we swore we could see gravity-- smooth & metallic in our fingers-- greedily stuffing our pockets-- it felt like tinsel or the pull of the CD player as it swallowed us into our mother's blue station wagon-- began playing the seven movement orchestral suite of Gustav Holst the planets what made him think he could give a voice to someone as loud as saturn? me & you walked all the way out to the sixth planet just to see what she really sounded like-- the sidewalk is full of black holes & we lose the car keys-- boom box floating by in the vastness of space-- when we arrive we find the rings are really made of sheet music & cassette tapes dismantled-- their insides halo-making we hear it-- the soft hush of violin & trumpet & drums recoiling from mallets-- saturn the bringer of old age i don't know if you still have that CD but if you don't we can take a walk again-- past the blinking neons lights of jupiter & the lusty cloud cover of earth-- past the war-torn heat of mercury & the love-poem moons of venus-- i always liked saturn the way she keeps a hula hoop-- the way she believes in flutes & the quiet yet to come out of our bones-- when we are old & i forget what the planets sound like will you remind me? catch the boom box or push the CD into my mouth-- past my teeth-- who knew the solar system would be so easily devoured i'll let myself become entangled in her rings-- open my mouth a phonograph body-- & when you sit out on the porch-- ghost of a violin in one hand-- steering wheel in the other listen close for me-- & steal another handful of gravity
tired
i am so tired tonight taking off my tan pants & button-up & binder-- down to my boxers-- standing at drawn window blinds & thinking how close i am to being terrarium & how many nights i have glanced up at dorm buildings to see open-window creatures-- citrus monsters-- pink peeling skin i wrap myself in the teal blanket the blanket i once bought for you & then you gave back-- that was two years ago when i still argued for a belief in god-- when i was reading hunter s. thompson in an attempt to remember your voice-- have you ever felt an ending before it happened? i don't mean like predicting an ending-- i mean feeling it i know there are 74 hours until i graduate college but today i feel glossary-- i feel us epilogue-ing-- summoning the ghosts of our freshman girls-- the ones who still eat Dairy Queen sundaes in the graveyard-- red plastic spoons in between teeth-- have i never told you how terrified i was of us? of the old trees whose roots i discovered deep in my thighs-- the first week-- their blood a kind of new ancestry-- of motherhood leaves-- i have grown less afraid of un-locked doors-- i leave mine open-- this is an invitation to god & other angels or a 14 year old girls with long brown hair & a desire to wear red panties-- i'm feeling myself caught in all these stairwells who've gulped down my voice-- oh the ball-point pens we would dig into walls-- oh the bricks who would fail us-- you reading me a poem you reading me a poem i listen to your mouth as if it were a window i would get to climb into-- i was terrified of us of falling in love with your teeth-- oh i did i did-- this is the feeling of the sound of broken plate of the closing of a bathroom stall door-- your porch giving me more shadows than i deserved you don't live there anymore but you always will-- & tonight i felt the mythical flyleaf-page breeze-- the numb-- the blank read me a poem read me a poem the back cover is that oak that fell in thunderstormed glory-- what a way to end-- her carcass dismantled-- taken apart by maintenance staff-- her rings still rippling through damp earth-- how many years did we touch when we sat at her base? she was selfish for not kissing me skin to bark to moss
03/01
wrench i noticed my brass hinge-wrists-- i can't sleep with the roof so heavy on top of us-- i'm thinking about the story of my grandfather taking his teacher's car apart & re-assembling it on the roof of his school building i never believed the story when my father told it to us as he rocking-chaired & sipped from the rim of a brown bottle-- i never believed it but i wanted to imagine it-- my grandfather working long into the night-- greasy wrench heavy in his rough hands-- what do you take apart first? the hub capes? remove the steering wheel? i woke up this morning with my grandfather's red monkey wrench on the floor by my bed & i went out back to the parking lot-- the impulse to deconstruct is unavoidable-- on days like this he is my patron saint-- black smudges on his knuckles-- he left finger prints on my white bed room walls-- i touch them to see if they have the same shape as mine-- what how much body do we share? i get on my knees start with the headlights-- still warm as blood from the last drive up main street-- next comes the hood which i snap off like a canned peach lid-- sugar syrup on my fingers-- set aside the pieces in the dew-slick grass would he be proud of me? does he smile about how i went to work with his wrench without hesitation? my father keeps his tools in the basement-- cool cement on bare feet-- i borrow a Phillips-head screw driver to take apart the glove box-- i have recently had the urge to hid myself in the glove box he tells me to take apart your hiding places-- & i'm scared because he's right & as i take off the front wheels of the car i cry & think about all the times i got flat tires & thought the world would end-- how many potholes i made beds in-- roll each wheel across the lot-- how many nut & bolts does your skeleton have? will you put yourself back together on the roof for everyone to see? when i put green volvo back together i want to do so beneath my bed-- we're too heavy for the roof & down here i can turn on the headlights-- my own little planets-- sleep in the parking space out back face up towards the steering wheel moon
alternate theories of evolution
i've been wondering what darwin would think of me-- the queer body-blasphemous boy with the hormone needle in his thigh-- sophomore year of high school our biology teacher Mrs. Knight didn't teach us evolution-- the assignment was to write our beliefs in a paper 3 options creationism, intelligent design, or evolution this poem is the 4th option-- & for years i was proud of my vehement defense of intelligent design-- my entropy empty cells-- as if my god ever had enough ink to write what we would become-- i laugh at the notion of blue prints-- my cells break the dining room window with a folding chair-- crawl in on hands & knees i had to force myself into my own body-- i'm thinking about Gregor Mendel-- the monk who grew peas & figured out about genes-- would he plant heredity like a halo at my widow'speak? would he ask me if any other family members of mine had come out like this like lock smiths of our own front doors-- i dislike wreaths-- the door is only another word for tongue-- my freckles taste like nutmeg & there's Mendel in his garden-- when the peas trade colors he kills them out of fear-- let's come back to darwin-- in freshman composition we read the origin of species when i say his name i think of him sitting in that same old photograph black hat & scraggly white beard on the inside cover of the book "my work is nearly finish" he says-- like i said the first time i cut off all my hair salon tile floor-- fingers stained with blue dye-- it takes centuries to make a body-- darwin you sold me lies that "each species had not been independently created" you cannot rid my skin of creation-- there are gods that exist only in my own bones-- this is the collage-- the frankenstein magazine body-- this theory is messy & involves the clipped wings of canaries my desk lamp flickering as i sew my hands back onto my wrists finger by finger-- rebellious tendons-- this re-evolution-- these bodies find their own fossils to trust-- oh darwin "we shall then see how Natural Selection almost inevitably causes much Extinction of the less improved forms of life" i want to ask him if what i've done to my body has ever counted as "extinction" if he knows how many match stick heads have died in my forearms for this-- this theory is of self-love this theory makes new bodies this theory doesn't have a species-- is un-natural-- was never selected-- i am full aware that nature would never have selected me-- i selected my own bones from Mendel's garden-- from the white flowers & stakes driven into the wet earth-- my skin is sedimentary-- oh darwin do you believe in the rocks that i bit open?
02/28
shipping & handling weight yourself at the UPS store up the street to discover how much postage you will need-- steal your father's stamps-- he will not notice adhere them each to the base of your neck-- while you're there stuff envelops-- you'll want to take the cedar with you-- the one you once wrote a poem beneath-- another one will be big enough to fit the entire night sky from that one evening in the park pavilion when we sat on the wooden picnic benches talked about ice cream cones & what we would do that summer-- don't forget to find a cardboard box for each of the seasons we've had-- the snow the pummeled the door frames-- asking to sleep at the foot of the bed-- those perfect autumns-- take all the leaves & don't worry about the shipping & handling-- it is imperative that we take everything-- chewing packing peanuts by the handful-- lately i taste nomadic-- peel tape off my lips in the morning-- tell myself no not today-- i have more time-- my address unwrites itself-- "return" is a word full of presumption as if somehow this room has swallowed enough of me to be somewhere to return to-- i have made a ghost to haunt perhaps apartments between 600-800$ a month in garden city-- their bare bodies-- their clean counter tops-- their open windows-- i write their addresses one after another down my own back-- so that they know i have a places i could be shipped to-- back of the mail truck-- jostling next to all these packages-- who writes letters anymore? i want to fantasize that back there i will lay in a meadow of love letters-- of penpals writing back from france-- in sixth grade a tried to have a penpal from france but they never wrote back-- i wonder if they have my letter-- if they wrote to me & never sent it-- if they decided to write to someone else if they know my address & plan on returning-- can you return somewhere you haven't been yet? i want you to know that i think of you as a return address-- there are numbers in between your fingers & when we hold hands i wipe 2s & 1s & 5s off on my thighs-- i don't want to write you down i hope you are one of those letters the ones in the back of the mail truck taking me to an empty apartment somewhere i will soon think of returning to-- & when i get there the first thing i will do is open that package with that night in it-- let the walls grow dark-- freckled with stars sitting on top the wooden park bench-- openning your envelop
next year
you will find your river bed voice next year & make your peace with the crayfish next year hair pulled strand by strand from black trash can lips replant them-- you will grow daughters next year burn old photographs--mark forehead with ash she is dead now-- you can visit next year live annual: mouth daffodil ready feel March biting: you've been alive one year eating white hourglass sand--spoon in hand you remember her less clear year to year i blue-dream i'll kiss you into next year your aqua body beneath clouds all year
02/27
knot in sunday school we learned that monks used to make knots in their belts to us as rosary beads-- finger & thumb-- coarse caress-- prayer tangles itself-- in fingers-- in bodies-- a fist to hold god in-- how big are your hands? big enough to tie up god? fishtail braid him-- my mother braided my hair only once: a wicker basket-- carried applies & peaches-- pick me up by the stem-- i imagined myself at school with a brown monk-robe counting hail marys as i balanced on the edge of the playground-- the chain-link fence clanging beneath my canvas shoes-- i wanted to teach my friends how to tie knots-- how to make prayer tangible-- something to hold onto-- i left knots everywhere as if one of them would catch god by the index finger a trap-- i was a girl who set traps-- the draw-strings blinds in the sun room-- my mother's spools of brown wool yarn-- american girl doll hair-- standing alone in the dark sacristy-- white altar server robe-- running fingers through the tassels of the rope wrapped around me-- holding me together-- making my own knots-- me-- a Franciscan monk-- vow of silence tied into my tongue-- opened my mouth to reveal the twisted cables-- gazing into mirror pink lips writhing in red string-- i recalled the shrunken heads in the museum-- dark thick needle cinching skin-- where do you tie up your words? do you send them to god in the form of a knot? i pretended each end of my altar server chord was a head of hair-- a siren-- long brown mythical maned-- i went to work-- tangling the chord beyond recognition-- knots as fists-- pounding on the wooden church doors-- pounding on my own teeth like draw bridges-- fists clutching in the back of my own hair-- there i am perched on at the kitchen table as my mother yanked a brush through the thicket of my hair-- tulip bulbs tangled at the base of my neck-- waiting for march-- cut off their necks before the rain encourages them-- i cut off my own neck-- head poised over the bathroom sink-- blood or milk--? rosary beads round my neck-- my mother said they're no supposed to be a necklace but when i was home alone i wore them anyway-- taking beads between thumbs & index finger-- un-knotting a prayer hail mary hail mary the lord is with thee-- did i catch god with one of those knots? is he still there waiting-- gentle light coming in the sun room windows-- it is always spring--
the idea of a rainbow
I think what scares me most is that what I need to write about won’t fit neatly into a poem—I don’t know what to write after that because usually I would write a poem—
I’ll still try to write something of a poem—
I’m thinking about the image of an earth worm—100-150 segments—each of those little rings contributing to the body’s movement—when I think of the earth worm I imagined that each little segment had a heart all to itself but really the earth worm has approximately five hearts—
I’m thinking of this because I’m trying to take inventory of my segments & how many hearts I have made use of—
I told you this wouldn’t fit into a poem—
& I’m thinking about how much & how long & if I really I loved him—about the summer nights we spent together on a cement porch—barefoot in his backyard—shooting bottle rockets—
oh we had to have known—we had to have known—
When I talk about him I pretend like I’m frustrated—like I’m angry & that I regret him but I don’t think I regret him— I don’t even think I regret the things that hurt me—the manic late-night text messages promising he’d love me forever—stealing my iPhone so I’d give him all my attention—he was all my attention—
I came to Ursinus partially because I wanted to stay close enough for him to drive to me—
Freshman year on my way to 8am Spanish I called him & we’d talk on the way to class & I don’t remember a thing we said—
What would we have to say?
We’d fuck with our clothes on & pretend that that meant we could be virgins—
I’ve said all these things before—the story feels old—like I’m talking about someone else—I say the same lines—I say “abuse can feel so so so so good”
& I start to wonder if the pain is retrospective—
I can’t conjure an emotion for it anymore—
& in another room my heart throbs under a park bench where another boy would rape me—I don’t like to write about it anymore & I don’t really know what that means—I can’t resurrect what I felt like in those moments—I feel clinical towards her—towards her body—I feel like I don’t want that to be my body—she is another body—
& the truth is I haven’t gotten that much better—what with the hoarding cereal boxes in every corner of my dorm room
The compulsion to go to the super market everyday as if I’d go there & see my mother & she’d take me for all I am—she’d be like mother’s who write Huffington Post articles—like mothers who join transgender advocacy groups—I know I ask too much & say too little—
Am I trying hard enough?
I just want to exist—I think I have become so pre-ocupied with existence because several segments ago I wasn’t really quite existing—
I bought a stethoscope recently—I’ve always been fascinated & terrified of them—I have this fear that I’ll hear my own heart stop—I remember being in girl scouts when they taught us to find our friend’s pulses I refused to do it & pretended to hold my own wrist—not pressing hard enough to feel my vein throbbing—
In second grade on the playground I sat beneath the slide & thought I felt my heart stop—I resolved I would stay there that I would keep this information to myself—that if I didn’t tell anyone it would go away—it would start again without encouragement—
I bought a stethoscope recently—completely on impulse—at the counter at CVS & I went back to my dorm—turned off the lights & listened—
Remembered my gym teacher telling us that our heart is about the size of a fist- I made a fist—
I make a fist & I think about sweat dripping from my tangled brown hair—a karate ring—red gloves—helmet—mouth piece—I want that—I want that kind of bruise-pain—that kind of kind of awareness of your skin—
I keep joking that I can’t cry because I started T but I really think that it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy—
I don’t know if I’m becoming a different person or if I’m willing myself into a different person—
That’s not my body—
That’s not my body with the long hair pulled like horse reigns—
I grew up around farms & Mennonites (you know that) & I always thought the horses were going to fall over dead—frothing mouthed in August while climbing the hill approaching town—
I felt like that when he made me fuck him—black blinder on & everything—sweat gushing from every corridor of skin
It was so hot—
I wanted him to—I wanted him to touch me like that—I bought panties—I wanted to be taken apart—as if I could become something worthwhile in the re-assembly—
Often times trans people fight so that people don’t think they’re trans because of abuse but I think sometimes that it wouldn’t be wrong if I were trans because of the abuse—
there are parts of this endeavor that are entirely symbolic—biological—as if I could inject every good memory with my father into my blood—
there are hearts I still beating that I no longer feel I own—
& I am so so so afraid—
It has taken me this long to quote someone else
“When I dare to be powerful—to use my strength in the service of my vision, then it becomes less & less important whether or not I am afraid.”
Audre Lorde wrote & she was dying of cancer—
I also often think that I’m dying of cancer but if I am I would rather not know it—I imagine it inhabiting all the segments—it was always there—
I don’t like to say my astrological sign 1) because I’m scared of the eyes of crustaceans & 2) because the word “cancer” etched in a star formation terrifies me—
I want to say I’m not afraid of change but I’m afraid of whose body this is—
I’m afraid that I’m not the same human who loved him—that whatever love surfaces on my skin will be somehow different—
What is a body without a gender?
What is a body with a different gender?
Do I want to dare to be powerful & if I do what kind of vision does she mean—
I often think about how butterflies see colors that we don’t—I often wonder if sometimes my body is like a color that is only seen by butterflies—
Somewhere lost between grocery receipts—measuring cups & the last morning I pretended to love him—it’s not the hair on my face—the steady drop of my voice like a melting hard candy—it’s the distance—
I’m thinking of the earth worms crawling out when it rains—
My ceiling leaks when it rains—
Have a made this a poem or a promise?
I keep trying to write a graduation speech but what keeps eroding is my own disbelief in self-discovery—
It’s lovely to think of it all like cartography—treasure-mapped—your body written—chest heavy with gold—
I think it’s more like the rainbow—like how you could drive towards it for hours—taking pictures—pulling over on the side of the road—ground still saturated from the rain & still never find its final resting place—
Forever an idea—
That’s me—a forever idea—
never landing—always all these colors—
Even the ones I can’t see
02/26
projectionist you were the projectionist film reels rattle-snaking across the bedroom floor hissing & biting my ankles-- i sat at my desk that night & write 'i love you' on the top of every note-book paper page as if i could make sense of it next etching the words into my forearm with red ball point pen-- lamp light enchanting us into shadow puppets you kissed the shadows out from inside me-- where my ribs clutch bloody & warm white sheet thumb-tac-ed to my back-- facing the wall-- nose touching the base of your neck-- puncture wounds trickling rain onto the carpet-- for you i wanted to be still to make a body worthy of holding pictures-- to watch movies on you sitting there in your boxers-- eating calamari off your fingers-- our ceiling shaking with the earthquakes of our fathers-- their work-boot feet-- their microwave thunder-- we have to hurry-- spit scenery-- clatter of the reel as it flickered across me-- you told me not to turn around-- that your weren't finished viewing & the movie was silent but i could feel it was about us-- about bunk beds collapsing about you daring me to catch the snake as it slipped away & into your closet-- teeth star-glinting-- about you noticing the scales of my knuckles-- me lying & telling you that i wasn't reptilian-- the imagery of us tattooing itself-- slide by slide-- when i asked you to stop you said this was our punishment for trying to escape into another person's body-- that we were going to watch it again & again-- that we were going to watch it until the shadows came back underneath our skin-- until the ball point pen washed out of my forearms-- but the reel turned into a snake-- bit your neck-- & the door to the basement was made of only rib cages interlocked-- my memory of us still hums there-- a white sheet crumpled on the floor-- your projector kneeling-- pouring history from her burnt lips
Robin Gow 