Monthly Archives: November 2012

Francine Imagines Her Thoughts as Fish in Hopes She Can Hook Their Eyes Blind

There are times Francine hates herself so much she wants to punch every tree until her body breaks open. There are times Francine hates her thoughts she fishes for hooks to hang them until they are unthought. There are times, she writes, Nothing, over and over and over and over and over. Again, she writes, if it wasn’t for St. Gabriel I’d kill every angel inside me until it felt good to be alive again.


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To Do List

write more poems more

publications lose 40 pounds

write poems plan wedding

in middle of nowhere write

poems lose pounds gain

publications plan wedding

in middle of nowhere plan

more poems lose 40 pounds

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I want to bittertangle

with you the moon on

the lamp shade next to

the man who writes on

pipe wrenches when lonely

on a rig miserable people

mingle in Hobby Lobby

learning ways to forget

graves that await them

I want a body in a sandpit

with you in it and disease

an ornament on the Christmas

tree between-girls swallowing

glitter sandpaper angels pain

basket of laughter in the middle

of nowhere tied red bow like

my waist forgiven juniper thin

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Stone Bird

a project thanks to a brilliant friend’s novel-in-progress called Stone Bird. I am reading his work which is somehow creating a poem frenzy in me where his words churn out my poem version of the novel.

If the birds have their way,

the pig and the goat

will always be another creature,

nothing but itself in an oven

Across an ocean.

Here it rains.


Long known by sailors,

ghosts who died at sea,

Every child once found

dreams of home—

Traveling thoasands of miles,

its love-bird will return.


Have you eaten anything, he asked

No, but stay, she responded. And her touch

would have let him go, only

a sea, foolish, bitter.


Like all things of stone, it would not warm.

They would eat together, facing misery,

further in love, then she would leave.

He would call her name.

She would be overcome.


She worried the stone

would offer and not want

gifts to bring

home, her husband.


It’s easy, deception. The walls

Flat and painted. She came

Light as air, and yet

more than anything, strong

in time. Are you okay.

She asked. He responded

Is it breathing? Her wing

on his back. And her looking.


Women are born

knowing languages men

have to learn. The egg, a bird—

One day, a rock he did not



The home of their birth, colder.

They seek parents  and are warmed.

We are all born birds,

white and discontent.


What if it is not born, she asked.

Try again after the world

You won’t leave. I will

Fail forever, succeed.


An egg is just a rock

That could be a bird

I lied, she said. Me too,

I could feel it move.


Before knowing the touch

of another, first light

into the world passes

in an instant. We know

our mother, small creature.


Made of stone, it would reach.

Hungry, tired, we tend

to forget to speak a word,

a single one. Lost parents

leave because they want to.

They still do.

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