alternate uses for wedding dresses 1 snowflakes-- this is what scissors are for-- for making cloth into water crystals-- veil after veil-- make me a promise-- just one 2 what are you thinking about? 3 a sleeping bag-- the backseat of my car has been a living room-- take your shoes off at the door 4 become a cloud & let the children point at you & guess what animal you are 5 paper napkins for our laps at the diner where the biplanes turn into angles out the big glass windows-- dad doesn't notice 6 parachute off the arm of the sofa-- off the knee of a horizon mountain-- call the rocks 'grandfather' 7 communion dress-- 8 ice the birthday cake-- take the corner piece for yourself 9 table cloth me with your elbows 10 come out of the dressing room-- show us 11 curtains-- light bleeding through your skin-- what good is blood when all it does is escape 12 tourniquet at the thigh-- you are an atrophy-- a frayed wire selling smoke-- burn down the fire place 13 kindling-- 1 has someone else worn my mom's wedding dress? were they in love or fear? 2 what are you thinking about now? 3 wrap yourself tighter when you sleep-- make use of your tongue as a bow-- 4 when you rain make it sleet so they know you were dirty 5 wear reds lips wipe off your mouth-- leave it on a napkin in the bathroom for another girl 6 if you happen to experience flight don't tell anyone else-- when you land you will be on the other side of the boarder escape 7 cross yourself 8 lick icing from your fingers 9 break the list-- fold it into a paper airplane-- 10 follow the bread trail Amelia Earhart left when she turned into a wedding dress 1 i'm telling you this so you know all there is to be done with spare white clothe 1 i'm telling you this because i have scissors & a mountain & a mouth
Uncategorized
01/15
overdue when i have no where else left i can rest i will come back to apologize-- crawl hands & knees into the return slot at the library up the street from my parent's house-- the library where i'm terribly overdue-- rubbing stamp faded from my spine-- can you still read the date i was supposed to come back? somewhere in june 2012-- dead of night when the angles walk on the fourth floor & the children's books flap their pages in an attempt to perch on higher shelves-- i put my finger to my lips to hush them as the romance novels try to serenade me & i explain that i'm "mostly gay" & am uninterested in what they have to offer-- i use my phone as a flash light-- the water fountain will offer to baptize me before i go to sleep-- i want to feel as light as a paperback-- i didn't mean to to be away so long-- i meant to return myself years ago on one of those haphazard afternoon when i drove back to kutztown-- i'm in the process of digging up roots & finding clay pots to re-plant them in-- each time i come back i find more-- in the carpet of the dollar tree-- thick veins-- hear beat beneath the sidewalks-- this town throbs in me like bruise-- sky turning egg plant out the windows-- is that the sun coming up already? i find a shelf to curl up on-- back towards the room like a good book-- i'm near the cook books & one aisle over i can make out the monsterous body of the encyclopedia growling-- hungry for more definitions-- he bites down on the dictionary-- bleeding nouns-- black letters on the blue carpet-- i know it is best to stay still so as to not disturb him as he works-- who knew the acquisition of language was such a violent task-- a page turned scar-- i rest my head on the shoulder of the book beside me & she laughs-- she kisses my forehead & recites a recipe for tikka masala-- a lullaby-- i put my arm around her & turn to one of my poems written on a rib-- she adores it-- she tells me i should sleep & in the morning i'll wake up to the sound of lighting gradually turning my pages yellow & brittle-- the dictionaries say their prayers as i turn to my flyleaf page to rest--
smudge
i wouldn't trust me with time travel-- to be honest i wouldn't trust me with most precarious situations-- i empathize with jenga-- see how high i can get before we laugh away our knees-- i smudged the camera lens with my thumb-- i smeared the concept of time in the process-- took the clock hands & told them to hold me down-- pull my hair-- i used to hate that-- it used to make me feel like a horse-- foaming mouth & fistful of reigns-- i hid my hooves in sneakers-- time was always a mess anyway-- i've been replaying the sun coming up again & again-- rewinding my own chest rising & falling as i sleep-- i often forget the keys to my skin-- sit here on the coffee table-- blanket over my shoulders-- i'm trying to talk nicer to myselfyou ruin everythingyou sometimes cut forever into pieces to make a scrap book--you should do more exercises in setsof 10--you should think of something kind to say-- i can hear you telling me to treat myself gently-- i'm not a gentle person-- doesn't it ever get tired of raining? i wear my shoes down-- a kind of nervous erosion-- i empathize with the Appalachian mountains-- getting so tall just to weather themselves down-- i remember in 7th grade when they told us they're shrinking i realize that someday when we're all very very dead there will be a slightly raised terrain the once shrugged its shoulder for me to climb on-- i don't think time makes you love someone-- i dated the idea of a boy for 3 years-- walked up to north look out-- hand in hand & i wished so desperately to be alone--i hate youi love you body-- even if sometimes i'm unkind & sometimes we don't eat breakfast when you're supposed to & sometimes we meddle with time-- back & forth-- brushing our soft brown 8 year old hair-- eating chicken nuggets with honey barbecue sauce-- i should leave things as they were/are but sometimes memories are better when you hold them still-- cut off the edges-- the gnats-- the blisters on your heels--i wish i wasnormali wish i was sturdy in time-- that i didn't have to worry about running away at night-- where did i leave the keys this time? this is the page where you kiss me & this is the one where i'm trying to glue the hands back on all these watches-- all the loud red digital clocks just read infinity & yes it'smy fault
picture me
this is a picture of us * sun in the windows * bodies evading light * together unmeasurable & instantaneous
01/14
INTO SHAPE disciple-me exercise video-- my god was a five pound weight-- she cut her body from a piece of purple construction paper-- 10 minutes abs-- 15 minute tone & sculpt-- give me give me 20 minutes everyday-- get your body ready for the ocean-- ready for the wedding-- naked ready-- love me ready-- what are you getting your body ready for? give me 30 more seconds-- hold hold hold for me-- you want those arms-- those thighs-- don't treat your legs like a bible you shelf-rest & pretend that you open-- read me a psalm-- are any amoung you suffering? they should pray-- i want to be this year i want to let the voices dictate themselves-- exercise the silence & the air-- the ones who eat charcoal & infect my body with numbers-- i am your OCD dreams-- assembly of mechanisms-- i designed myself to be contained-- oh please i want your to spill me i want to be scattered-- i don't want to have a shape-- maybe i'll collect as the rain water does for shoes to step in-- i'm deeper than it seems-- this puddl goes down to the trench-- down to the jagged fins of angler fish-- grow me gills & i'll breathe fire-- i was a fist of sand-- an hourglass unmaking itself into a dune-- this is a prayer to all humans who want to be owners of bodies rather than be owned by parameters-- what is your circumference anyway? your width? you surface area? take my geometry with you-- i could be softer-- more inclined to sleep-- the carpet was only a roll of wrapping paper to be torn open-- what kind of body do i have waiting in the wings-- meandering-- come forward-- there are bones here-- they have always been yours--w i want to find a shape that is ours-- oh cascade me skin-- i keep waking up in the glass of water on my end table--
01/13
how do you fall asleep? while the ocean is busy making blankets only to unravel them in foam-- while orion wears his belt of bottle-caps & soda tabs-- we will inevitably be found with your eyes busy stealing so many stars-- what kind of fire are you? & what kind of water am i? skin becoming the soft stones who rest in the clay of the creek-- i don't trust winter anymore or rain but i trust sleep next to you-- nestled somewhere between currents-- did you know the universe is one big pond-- comets growing webbed feet like tadpoles-- let's wake up on the surface of the moon-- look for rivers to walk in
01/12
you made a casual apocalypse today is the apocalypse-- the end of everything-- of course it'll pass like it always does & i spend most days thinking about how close i am to becoming an ending that a sky of fire does very little to shock me-- i make coffee-- tear two yellow sugar packets-- stir-- i ask the sun if she's getting up or if she's resigning to be grey today-- i don't mind being grey-- it's the big finale anyway & last night i felt you kiss me the whole way home-- reckless-- i closed my eyes at stop lights in the hope of falling asleep & conjuring a dream of us-- your lips soft honey-bee wings-- the steam sneaking from the rim of my mug of tea-- kiss after kiss-- chapstick leaving the gentle illusion that you are coming home with me-- i accidentally kiss the steering wheel-- cold-- flinch at the blare of the horn-- back to the apocalypse-- i'm not shocked by this kind of thing usually-- not by four horseman or the crackling streets-- i pull the blinds closed to keep out the glare of the fire-- it's best to not give it any attention-- best to just let the world work itself out-- i take a run & think about how maybe if i added up all the miles i've run this week i could easily have run all the way to you-- i would be tired but it would be worth it for the romantic gesture-- i'm a mess as you can see-- laying in bed last night i thought i was still in my car & i reached for the parking break-- i could feel you reach for my hand & we lined them up palm to palm-- oh how you make mirrors to be broken-- park the car on the ceiling where it won't come down-- gravity relinquishing her hold on the fading planet-- under my covers i begin to levitate-- lifted by the mischievous hands of angels they're overcome with fear-- i fall asleep-- thinking of floating down a river-- clear & full of sun beam-- holding you is kind of like that tension at the surface of any body of water-- clear water lakes & tadpole pools in April-- the thin layer on the surface that water bugs skate across-- oh how i want to fall in please kiss me again
01/11
cherry-tree buck i didn't feel the entry point-- not at first-- yelp of your gun-- echo-- flush of birds in all different directions-- drop feathers like snow-- trees raising their arms in prayer-- oh spare me god of gunfire-- the forest smoked around me with the eagerness of your trigger-- you replaced your bullets with cherry pits & called it love-- taught me to tie knots in the stems-- barrel pointed at my thought-- a joke about how easy it is to find ammunition & how even innocent cherries could betray me-- stain my fingers-- is this blood or juice? you were the one who told me to wear white-- smudge soil-- my antlers caught again in the tree limbs-- snagging comets-- singed on stars-- somewhere in california the whole world is burning-- it's only a matter of time before it gets here & there will be nothing a little boy with a gun can do but shoot the deer's skull full of cherry pits-- sprout from my forehead-- roots digging down deep through my shoulders-- have you ever bore the weight of a planet? have you ever held the body of a tree? drop your leaves for me-- this is january & we are supposed to be kindling & here i am-- your cherry tree buck-- trunk bursting from my bones-- too heavy for me to move-- the forest floor will treat me better than any hunter & his son-- voles & squirrels come out of curiosity-- scurry across my chest-- check to see if i am in fact still alive-- they can tell i'm not but they're eager for the tree to bear fruit-- they congregate in worship for roots & the hunter's creativity to use cherry pits for gun fire-- another prophetic man-- the spot where the tree grew feels vaguely like the course hand the priest making a sign of the cross in oil our holy water-- it haunts me alone-- like god is teasing me one last time with his phantom thumb-- come march i ache for water & eventually i give in & pray for rain-- & it comes-- metallic tasting-- trunk too massive for me to move-- you came back-- umbrella & green jacket-- gun slung over your shoulder-- searching my branches for fruit-- fondling leaves till you found cherries to fill your pockets-- it wasn't enough was it? are we ever enough for each other? tell me though, do they taste as metallic as the rain?
01/10
marrow last night i became a museum-- lingering by the window & wondering where cars could be driving to at 1am i let them start-- the builders in their blue overalls-- no one asked if i was ready-- it was assumed-- i extended my arms for them to work-- building me brick walls & a little japanese rock garden-- bamboo wind chimes-- modern-art statues of green metal & mischievous sliver-- i love them because they don't have to resemble anything-- when i was little my uncle would laugh at the abstract-- the canvas of circles & shapes-- telling me that art can't just be anything-- i want all of those paintings inside of me-- the undecipherable-- when i was little at the reading museum i fell in love with paint splatter-- found dragon-wings in the splashes & when i rained it came down in jackson pollock's palette-- my skin a kind of pinkish canvas & now a museum-- they put in a revolving door & an entrance with pillars-- they drape tarps over statues as they haul them inside-- i wanted to swallow all the pinned butterflies-- all the skeletons of owls-- renoirs & monets-- keith harring's dancing men laughing with them bodies down my hallways-- bring them in-- i didn't want any empty walls-- art kind of keeps me company-- laying here-- feeling the frames nailed to the inside of my ribs-- lining the corridors of my radius-- the statues poised in my pelvis-- if you feel alone come visit me here-- keep yourself company with brush stroke & plaster mold-- i've made myself a museum for you-- there are benches to sit on & if you are tired you can always curl up sideways & sleep-- if you find the need to pray that's what my eyes are for-- their stained glass glow-- the piano keys of my crooked teeth-- this is a replica of a cathedral in france where god would probably live if he was an artist-- the doors are open-- check your coats-- hang them on each of my fingers-- take a number from my tongue-- i'll keep quiet so the art can be louder-- so you can hear your own foot steps following you-- i hope you're one of those wonderful people who doesn't read the descriptions with the paintings-- just walking along & stepping timidly into each new world like a puddle of oils-- please touch everything-- feel the thick lines of degas thrashing trees & spiral with van gogh as he manages to paint the wind-- when you are down feel free to get lots in the gardens-- there here so you'll stay longer-- oh who would have thought that all i had wanted was to be a museum-- your foot steps-- your pauses-- your excited silences a kind of euphoria-- pacing the marrow of my bones-- you would make such a nice statue you know that?
01/09
passport i would probably write better poetry if i traveled-- you told me about the trains in europe-- about the view out the window on the ride across the countryside of paris & the calliope of voices filling the car-- french & italian words thick in the air-- i dated an italian boy for too long but all i know about the language is that the word 'zingarella' means some sort of wandering girl-- barefoot & sometimes she dances-- i'm smiling because he called me that & for a wandering girl i haven't gone very far have i? i don't have a passport-- i just have my legs & an old car that has trouble starting in the cold-- i should make my own passport-- take scissors to the morning paper-- a collage of headlines & the names from the obituaries glued together to make a face-- i could use my pressed roses from prom that still smell like hairspray & black high heels-- paste them along the borders-- what else then? would a sea shell be too much? would it remind me of too much of chingoteague? where my father taught me how to catch a snapping turtle by the tail & where we kissed on a dock-- let our feet dangle-- oh or was that maine? i'm still sorry for the lobster we ate-- i think of him still--red & afraid-- water heating around him-- let's go back to that train in europe-- the one you told me about-- i think i would definitely want to be there alone but only so that i could think about him wistfully-- there is a certain degree of pleasure that exists only from being away from someone-- when i cross the border into spain they will probably scour at my passport-- the wilting flowers-- the black & white newsprint face-- the seashells protruding-- they will blink & shrug though & let me past & i might write a poem later about the ridiculous thrill of boarders like when we drove down to the ocean & shouted out the windows of my mother's blue station wagon at the sign that told us we were entering new jersey-- i promise you i do a lot of wandering even when it's too cold for bare feet-- i wish there was a word for the boy who likes to wander-- sometimes when i fall asleep i stand up from my body-- passport in hand & i try to walk to him-- street light by street light-- all the way down the highway into city-- crawl in bed next to him & say that i want to get lost somewhere together-- i wake up in my body again-- barefoot-- passport in hand-- the train is headed for madrid-- passing through barcelona but only briefly
Robin Gow 