these are the mornings when cold takes on a body & follows me home inside the door-- crawling into bed next to me-- playfully bites my ear-- the cold is a terrible flirt-- presses hands on the small of my back until he's wearing my body as his own-- laying here i think of myself as a wonton or a pot-sticker-- or a pirogue doughy blankets enveloping me-- seal me with steam-- when i was eight i would eat deconstructed-- scrape the potatoes or pork filling from their casing-- place myself inside & reseal them-- with a few table spoons of water or a paper towel the microwave can give birth to anything & there i put myself for 30seconds- 1 minute-- watching the cold exorcised from skin-- here in my blankets-- resisting being born into another year still so cold-- i'm not so much afraid of changing as i am afraid that it will hurt & that i won't know how much it hurt until i look back-- head beneath the covers-- hot holy water wrinkling my flesh-- the cold will of course coarse himself inside-- open the windows a crack when i'm not careful-- i poke today with a fork-- perch on my wooden desk chair-- burst blood vessels-- fireworks on my neck-- the year is new--
Uncategorized
01/01
tree bone i make my bed every morning at 7:55 by tossing my beige blanket until it hangs even-- resist gravity who tells me to wrap myself up-- lately i want to sleep forever where it's warm where no one can see my bones & outside of course there's the trees being so bold as to wear their nakedness-- their black bones shivering in the dull sunrise-- i keep the blinds drawn but i know they're out there-- caressing each other's fingers-- numbly feeling for clouds-- soon i will walk out the front door to admire them-- eyes watering from the mischeif of the wind-- carpals snapping beneath my grey & green sneakers-- how brittle are my bones in winter? how brave & frivolous are the trees to put on this show-- there was of course one point in the seventh grade where they made us label all the bones in the human body & i remember very little-- i'm haunted by the memory of blank flash cards & beautiful location-less bone-words somewhere these trees have fibulas-- they have a pelvis to sit on-- a broken patella-- a clavicle bruised from bird kisses-- i joke with myself that maybe this time next year i'll move away to somewhere not so cold in the winter-- like the blue jays -- i boast to the geese that i'm flying south this year-- that i'm sick of getting naked with the trees-- of course they'll hook & laugh because they know i'm too tired to fly that far if i wanted to-- you will always have a stubborn admiration for the place where you were born-- wrapping a blanket around myself i peak behind the blinds-- see the trees femur deep in powdery snow-- radius balancing the hestitant sun-- she peers in on them all in their waltz as they slow after a passing breeze-- we blink & i feel the next gust shake me-- skull swallowing air-- where are my leaves? wrap me in blankets, lovers-- pick up my bones & use them for fire wood beneath the bed frame-- turn on the over head light-- write tree-bone poetry-- i will tell the geese i am already gone
reset
to be honest i didn't really know what i wanted to write a poem about & i don't have the patience for a sonnet or some carefully executed series of quatrains-- i like to write like a spilled bowl of cheerios-- like a smudged window-- like a handful of bird seed-- i don't want to peel off band aides today & write about how my eating disorder feels like a damp card board box i live in or how the scars on my forearms stopped healing or wanting wanting wanting for people to see me as the boy i am-- no i want to write about my car not starting this morning & how i thought if i kept turning the key that it would awaken something inside the engine-- some sort of final spark & the car would sputter & shiver & we would stumble out of the driveway as we always do-- i got out to look at her-- tears turning to icicles on her chin-- i kept twisting & twisting-- hands turning statue because i'm too stubborn to wear any damn gloves-- with each forced turn of the key she choked less & less until the dashboard was dark & i was there gripping the cold steering wheel-- mirror fogging from my anxious breath-- i said this is when the car starts-- this is when the car is supposed to start-- she couldn't leave me-- this was when she was supposed to wake up-- this was when she was supposed the get on her knees & inhale deep the unforgiving frost-- my car has been a sort of lover to me-- we hold both hands when i'm too nervous to sleep-- up the street-- linger in the planetary glow of the stop light on mulhenberg drive-- park at the back of the lot where other cars won't see me lay down in the back seat among used books & a blue broom i use to wipe the snow off the windows-- i guess i did have something to write a poem about-- i have so many little things like that-- you know i don't actually have a single clue what i'm going to do today & it's the new year-- it's terrifying & my car is dead in the driveway & the only place i can think to go is my parents house-- not because i actually want to be there but because i have this fantasy each time i drive there that this will be the time that every- thing feels right like it only ever will in a smudgy memory that probably never actually happened-- when i don't feel so sad there-- i said maybe this year we could try my name & my pronouns-- it's exhausting to ask-- i don't really know how many more times i will have the courage to-- breath on the back window-- i don't know what this poem is about--
12/31
running water i have to confess that i leave the water running when i get ready by the bathroom mirror-- the quiet hush keeps me company-- comforts me-- i have never seen a real waterfall but i assume it is something like this-- i practice my voice in the mirror-- bathrooms were designed to reflect voices-- when there's no one else at my house i can say anything-- i say i my name-- taste testing it's nuances-- i sing fragments of songs-- sometimes hymns-- that's the thing about being once catholic-- you're never actually ONCE catholic-- the hymns come back to you when you most want to be secular or an atheist or a pagan-- here i am in my boxers letting myself sing ave ave ave maria-- hallelujah-- it's sunday morning & the water is running & the water is singing & the water is singing with me-- her body becoming a canticle-- she becomes a lover sitting on the ledge of the sink-- running a hand through my hair--thumb over my cheek-- she laughs & says i'm growing hair on my lip-- i'm here wasting baptismal fountains-- wasting the river Ganges-- the amazon-- the nile-- kicking up the silt-- water pouring from the basin & onto the tile floor around me-- baptism is almost always accidental-- when i leave the water running i turn it up hot-- almost scalding-- steam fogging the mirror-- i am so often a foggy person-- obscured by the running water-- in elementary school i would wait to be last in the bathroom so i could run water from all the sinks-- wait for them to warm & stick my whole arms beneath them-- eyes closed i could pretend i was at home & in the bath-- in middle school i would learn to take the pink hand soap & rub it on my armpits when i forgot deodorant-- sitting on the ledge-- letting the sink cry for me-- her water-- endless-- outside the water became snow yesterday but here she flows-- i ask it to tell me a story about when she was younger-- about her father & her & graveyard-- instead she tells me about blue gills & the feeling of fish hooks-- she tells me about a shell full of water poured over my head-- the priests leathery white hands holding my fat pink body-- send me down the river in a basket-- i want to be born here by the faucet-- i cup hands-- splash water to my face greenish facial scrub down the drain-- i hestitate before i push the handle to shut her off-- her laugh repeating-- her hymn-- wordless ave ave ave maria i leave the water lulling on second longer-- she kisses my forehead & tells me to make her my hymnal-- tomorrow is the new year-- i genuflect before i get dressed-- still damp & humming--
resolutions loosely made
i want to write less deliberate poetry-- stop asking myself what the poetry is saying & walk out bare foot in the powdery snow-- the kind that is so light that it doesn't melt at first & you're tricked into believing you could use it to fill your pillows-- i'll sleep damp & cold-- i want to listen to my mother when she asks me if i'm warm-- i want to be able to say no-- no i'm not all that much better-- no i haven't stopped keeping track of calories on my phone-- no i didn't know it was going to snow this morning-- no-- i don't know anything about driving in the snow-- i slide at the stop signs-- i want to learn to use my heart as a paper weight sometimes-- set it out on my desk-- turn the fan up higher to keep me company-- read aloud when i'm alone-- talk to myself more-- ask him questions-- laugh at his naked body in the fogged bathroom mirror-- pray my chest into clay-- not that earthy clay from the souls of rivers-- i mean that un-natural crayola clay that reenacts the primary colors-- this year i want to re-learn how to make purple & orange & green-- trust the water colors-- dry like oil & by that i mean refuse to dry-- i want to be inconvenient this year-- i want to write more poems on stickie notes-- more poems in sharpie on my own skin-- i want to write about the stars less-- re-kindle a reverence for the image of the moon & her audacious womanhood-- when it snows i want to write about it because when it snows it snows & it snows-- i want to be less afraid of silence & the 1402 unread messages waiting on my elementary school email-- i want make morning love to my own faint shadow-- cut her hair & kiss her forehead before she goes out to play in her green snow suite-- what is there left to write about anyway? i want to stop worrying about how long my poems are-- if they reach the rafters or if they resemble the white chairs in the kitchen i used to use to crack eggs on the side of the bowl when my mother & i baked pretzels-- i want to be imperfect this year-- i want to write more cliches-- more cliches about love-- it's all been written hasn't it? everything there is to say about us-- refer to romeo & juliet or pablo neruda-- i want to drink less poison-- live entirely for summer-- sweat unapologetically-- this poem is not a resolution this poem is a handful of that soft snow-- the kind of snow no good for packing-- no good for becoming men-- not even really fit to be angles-- you can't throw this snow-- you can't even really form it into anything at all-- even my foot prints to my car are quickly covered by the wind-- yes i run in the morning-- yes i'm vulnerable-- yes my voice is as clumsy as my teeth-- i don't really know where this poem is going-- i want to know less about where each poem is going or if it ends clean or radical-- i'm not a "drop the mic" kind of boy-- this is a poem-- a cold stone bench to sit on & wait for the bus-- a poem waiting for nothing or everything-- this year i want i want i want
12/30
in search of an answering machine blue-mouthed & eager-- will you read me through my new wax paper skin? do text messages travel on the wing-beat of the hummingbirds or have they resurrected the carrier pigeons for us? just between me & you-- we surpass the intricacies of satellites & put our trust in the birds-- pull the alphabet from space-- each 'i' & 'u'-- construction paper moon-- do you hear my words passing treacherously through the jaws of the grey night clouds? astray in the astral air-- between the furious heat of stars-- why isn't that anger enough to melt the doors of my house? i want to feel the texture of your palms-- enough to give my bones bat wings-- do they use echolocation? will they remember to tell you 'i love u' even though i send the same message every day month after month after month-- words intrepid breathing of air-- where are you when i send you 'good morning' at three in the afternoon because my concept of a day beginning keeps stretching taller & taller as the sun stubbornly crawls into bed too early-- pulls the covers over her head & stays away only to scroll on her phone-- oh i sometimes forget the sound of your voice-- oh i sometimes hear the hummingbirds smack against the back door-- their bodies crumpling like wades of sketch paper-- our house has no answering machine anymore-- i hear the reverberations of my phone calls as they're swallowed up by the collective of all these basements-- i send you hummingbirds in the hopes there are flowers growing somewhere in that house on noble street-- maybe the african violets from mother's day have survived by the kitchen skin-- maybe the orchid in my bed room got back her head-- oh if you had an answering machine i would have to hang up-- anxious to not leave my misplaced teeth beneath your pillows-- instead of let the phone ring-- it does not plan on stopping-- each ring sounding more & more like the moan of a sea monster-- the deep pulse of hawk wings-- in the window come the big black birds-- the birds made of shadows-- i hand them my text messages & they scoop them up in their talons-- they tell me next time i should rely on the satelittes like a normal girl & i tell them i'm not a girl-- & they laugh-- their voice crumpling-- i keep believing that if i don't hang up i will eventually reach an answering machine-- that someone will pick up & listen just to the simple rhythm of my breathing-- they'll remind me that i am alive-- blue mouthed & terrified-- what kind of poems do you hear? i trust the birds-- where they carry my text messages is between them & god--
12/29
temporary 1. i live inside an origami crane-- wings pulsing-- i don't want to hang pictures on the walls because the next time it rains the paper will go limp & the ceiling leak heaven 2. the position of the clouds-- playing tag with each other-- out of breath i run to try & catch one-- my brother was a cloud 3. the gaping moon 4. whose scars are temporary? mine printed like hieroglyphics-- the language of pictures-- the interim of words-- 5. this morning i wrapped myself in three blankets & still refused to accept that we were here in the thick of winter 6. i am always so naive to believe these augusts will be eternal 7. the clouds who burst into butterflies 8. my brother who bursts into butterflies on the other end of the phone call 9. i build a home in his mouth shaped like the waning moon 10. my bones to steel in the night air-- open the windows & let out the heat-- 11. mistrust the carpet-- folded paper foot print-- 12. the snow will melt 13. the rain will freeze 14. i will again be mistaken by god for a statue as i un-tomb myself in impermanence-- 15. my address i ask you to send postcards to-- i pretend that this dorm room is somehow flooded with blood-- 16. my blood 17. this list 18. how far does my list poem take you? 19. the ache of my spine becoming your staircase-- 20. the ache of remembering the euphoria of skinned knees & the cool dusk of autumn 21. i am 21 years old somehow & my brother is 18 & we will soon enough be older still & we will soon enough again be sitting in my green volvo & briefly stumbling-- headlights wide-- into the clouded sky-- 21. when we're done talking about why we're depressed he'll move on to explaining the intricacies of germany's involvement in world war 1 & the clouds will chase us back to noble street-- we love history & books because for a little bit we can hold onto something-- 21. the treaty of Versailles is being sign on a wooden bench in the back yard-- joyce again writes Ulysses & vonnegut's promise of so it goes so it goes so it goes echoes in these rear view mirrors-- 21. the stair case is made of books & the words of half-dead poets 21. the rain comes or was it snow? 21. the clouds catch up to us-- bleed our pages white 1. oh fold yourself tightly it is in fact winter
12/28
i'm waiting for her the waiting room furniture is migratory-- a flock of it's own-- following me from psychologist to doctor to the quest diagnostics where i wait for them to take me apart by vials-- what do you see in my carmine veins-- i rust over like the rail road tracks down by the foundry from lack of use-- balance on my own wrists & you held my hand in the slick summer & we were fourteen & just beginning to discover infinity in an afternoon-- i'm here to follow the tracks in the dirt left my leather sofas & stoic-backed chairs with their pinched noses-- lamps with trailing two-pronged cables-- the real illusion is the we have time to waste-- as if time were something to be held rather than balanced on-- hold me steady or i'll fall & scrape open me knees & my rust will gush out like paper weights-- weigh me down gravity-- weigh me down-- my pockets are full of clock hands & loud digital numbers i harvest from my father's alarm next to the slouching bunk bed that is also a piece of waiting room furniture-- will you take this time to sleep? will you remember one line of a poem-- run it over & over again in your head until it disappears nameless beneath your tongue-- here time dissolves in the bright smiles of magazine covers-- in the obscurity of office paintings-- covered bridges-- walk through one with me-- i'll show you how well i've learned to balance-- this is how we find the leather couches-- their stubby legs leaving punctures in the dirt-- what kind of dull pain do you feel in your chest when you realize you have let the night walk all over you? you have let dusk bruise your shins with it's heavy heavy boots-- did you sky remind you of your father? did you finch-- did you recoil-- did you bend the railroad tracks like a constrictor tightening-- leave knots in the clock arms-- leave promises in the cushions of the chairs-- who are you waiting for? i'm waiting for her to be done-- from them to draw out all of her blood vial by vial until she is better-- until she is younger than fourtee before she rusted & before she ate onion grass out of curiosity-- we are a nomadic people-- don't believe them when they tell you to stop wasting time-- look don't you see it? it beams like a rust-mouthed tea kettle-- steam-- the afternoon is as long as it wants to be & when the waiting room furniture roams-- i unplug my iphone charger & follow-- be home before dark they say-- what do you think they'll find in my blood? a pile of thumb tacks? your unwanted touches? the snakes of your shoe laces? let me trip-- i want to be unsteady-- spill myself-- carbonated & dizzy-- i cast out with my fishing rod-- snag the horizon line-- shut the eyelid of the day-- time is not so much a penny as the sound of change dropped on the tile floor-- if my body agrees tonight i'll sleep in a painting-- one with a sun that doesn't budge-- i'll hide under the barn with the tails of a thousand cats-- i'll hear them call my name from outside the wooden frame-- i'm waiting for her-- she's getting better
12/27
petri dish you & me woke up in the same petri dish-- yellow incubator light overhead-- it is a question of who is faster at consuming? our world was small & our cells were simple & prokaryotic-- in the town where i grew up they tear into the asphalt every summer & the beeping of backing u vehicles kept my night shift father awake-- staring into the ceiling while my brother & i walked along the rim of the dish-- traced our own perimeters-- the mountain past the Rite Aide where the whole world ended-- & in the 10th grade i loved biology-- our biology-- our sickly biology-- the biology of our bodies in petri dishes & the back seats of cars-- our biology of basements & the yellow incubator light glaring down at us-- this was our single-celled life-- this was our growth-- the impending collision of our expanding bodies-- who will eat who? isn't that always the game of our fist loves-- who will grow up faster & leave the other one to sleepin in the halo song of golden moons-- we ate gas station doughnuts & i learned that a 'no' from the throat of a girl means nearly nothing but an apology-- i made my own holy water from blue raspberry slushies & i still know kutztown's side roads better than my own cell structures-- i don't remember anymore about the different membranes of the bacteria cell or why we raised them in the back room of the lab in 10th grade or where they went when we were done spying on them under microscopes-- peering into their soft & tiny bodies-- there pilus-- the small hairs propelling them through swiftly across the agar-- i had thick legs as a girl & dresses to hide them-- you had black hair & sometimes you bumped your head on the roof of my house-- that's how tall you became-- how much space you take up inside me still when i think about your hand snatching a fist of my hair to yank-- who will consume who in the petri dish? who will climb through the microscope's lens back into the lab where i was wearing gloves & goggles-- marveling at the blueish hue of the bacteria we had inspired-- there the stop light on main street blinked & a singular red toyota clamored out of town-- & no matter how vast i become-- when i see that car-- his car-- i alter-- simplify my cells --on my knees in agar-- membranes throbbing with the fear of the memory of such smallness he sparked in me-- oh what do you remember from biology class? do you remember counting the bacteria on the back of your hands-- did you believe yourself a microcosm? & the street lamps don't go on all at once in kuztown-- they light one after the other until they find their way to noble street-- expanding only to the edge of corn fields
12/26
it's a wonderful life it's a wonderful midnight-- a wonderful car ride-- a wonderful backyard our neighbors built a tall tall fence to keep our headlights & our eyes we flick like marbles through the grass-- whether we like it or not-- humans are great builders of fences-- a wonderful fence brick by brick sectioning off our own corners of the sky-- the evergreen tree who is all of our grandfathers-- yes he belongs to us-- the fence says so-- when i was seven i dreamed of clothes lines in the backyard-- of wonderful clothes lines of my long-sleeve yellow shirt flapping in august breeze-- dreamed of taking images of the moon with my disposable camera dreamed of of tight-rope walking-- dreamed of balancing & sitting up on the roof-- the fence grows up to the shingles but if you look up you might believe the sky would take you back-- a particle in orbit-- a wonderful orbit i was there roof-thinking about that movie "it's a wonderful life" my uncle used to talk about it every christmas even though we seldom watched the film-- basically these angels talk this guy out of jumping off a bridge & killing himself by showing him how wonderful his life was-- there are two things wrong with this movie-- 1) this life is not all that wonderful-- we don't hang a clothes line-- we don't see over the fence-- the washing machine bangs her head into oblivion-- she too escaping gravity-- the laundromat becomes a hymnal & on christmas we all come to bed to think about death 2) where have these angels been for me & all the times gravity abandoned me on roof top clothes line? our bridges don't have angels-- our bridges have memories & fences aching to scrape the underbelly of mars-- our bridges have fathers with callous fingers & mothers with oven mitts-- tonight i felt a release-- felt my shoes leave the snow-crusted earth & i rose-- i rose above the fence-- above the shingles above the clothes line we never hung-- disposable camera in my hand-- sent into orbit once & for all-- these angels will see me as a comet maybe-- passing on occasion to snap a picture with the flash on & then roll the little black plastic dial on the camera to be ready for the next shot-- the moon still hangs un-photographable & the other planets duck behind their moons to avoid my lens so i turn to the back yard there my brother un-sheaths his bayonet & stands-- an angel on a clothes line-- reeling me back towards earth with his wingless soldier body-- it's not a wonderful life-- it's a disposable camera life-- a roof-top life a tall tall fence life-- these angels these angels they're us
Robin Gow 