Archive for ‘Marie’

October 4, 2017

The Woodland

by A. Marie

I am inferior. Let me say it.

Let it roll on my tongue, get pressed to my inner cheek, let it
fall out to the earth, let the solar rays shine on it,
the rain hammer over it,
the soil encapsulate it,
have it arise.

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September 7, 2017

Clap

by A. Marie

On the banks of religion, I ponder the propensity of holy silences. Its how flow.

Why search with feet and hands, eyes and ears and nose

for a formless revelation, for a voice, or sound,
that is Never, ever nebulous and blank, that hadn’t considered we men and women
would write its noiseless musings, would sketch and paint, stain glass,

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September 1, 2017

Towers

by A. Marie

The towers, though goliath and glinting
all look the same, with four sides, four thousand windows,
four hundred workers all at their desks, clattering, and stretching

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August 30, 2017

Wet Feet Are Part Of Life

by A. Marie

Worry about me later,
for barbarians are coming over the hills,
carrying long pikes and angry words,
searching for reasoning they do not possess.

My sleepless nights are a gene inside me,
melatonin leached from my skin,
my fascination with the moon, my dark monarch
taking flight to greet the lamps lighted.

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August 24, 2017

My Friend and Her Anxiety

by A. Marie

Over and over on a Ferris wheel, she will not come down,
have her meal, will not admit that she is afraid
that the contraption revolving around her heart may one day die.

She’d rather sit there, all hours, observe the heights
and the tops of towers, reach her fingertips up as she drops
to brush the illusions, feel the felt and wool of a god’s eyelash
she dreamt of the night before.

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August 18, 2017

I Am Not In Love With Anyone

by A. Marie

I am not in love with anyone. Pablo Neruda, Nikki Giovanni,
Shakespeare, and all his fair women, dressed in men’s robes,
have nothing on me.

Flinty, unyielding; that is what they called me.
No tree could brace against my wind.
In my savage silence, I could sabotage all lovers’ din;
heavy, and unmatchable, though, I strike a rock in orange brightness.

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August 2, 2017

While Alive

by A. Marie

When we fall down, when we land, when we lay
upon the bedrock, do we look up? Or do we close
our eyes, and make do, roll the dirt around us,
invite the insects to have discussion, play with god;

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August 1, 2017

In Days And Dreams

by A. Marie

Follow, and step, and step,
the stepwells of India, imagine the high sun

arcing upon the bare back of an old god, a woman
peeling off the strips of yellow light, and eating them
like pieces of an orange.

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July 23, 2017

Overthrow

by A. Marie

Winch upon waking; the night is not gone.
Harangue at your terrors that sweep along the walls.
Make a shotgun of your pillow, throw lightning at the mirror.
What would the darkness have of you? Mass marketer of
fears, has aligned itself with your cheek, weaving your spittle
into the phantom.

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July 14, 2017

That’s all

by A. Marie

Two legs, that are columns, your roof of bone, blood, sinew,
housing your pantheon, your gods that were born from burnt meals,
falls off your bicycle, windows you leapt from, drainpipes
slid down, hearts your broke with unkind words, papers you tore
and launched off bridges you walked
in the night.

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July 7, 2017

Raising Lazarus

by A. Marie

Some say Jesus laid with Lazarus
the way turtle doves press together;

I am not one to doubt, love.

As I lay with women, a woman
in my own right, I am confronted
with a graphic depiction of a man and a woman in sex,
conceiving Kahlil Gibran, Galileo Galilee,
Elizabeth Cady Stanton, Marie Curie,
Hasan Ibn al-Haytham, like points of light.

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July 3, 2017

Where Are The Clocks?

by A. Marie

Where have all the clocks gone?
I cannot tell the time,

not without one strapped to my wrist,
or that rectangular block
producing radiation by my thigh.

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June 29, 2017

We Shattered Our Faith in the Lightning

by A. Marie

From this angle, you say, the Holy Ghost
looks like an ibex, sauntering its way down the slope,
folding paper, in its coal hooves,
slitting the white fish belly
of the mist.

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June 25, 2017

Lines

by A. Marie

Pieces of me didn’t break. Socks I didn’t roll, shirts
I didn’t fold. Hardly limbed, I carried
each cup of malice in my clenched teeth, and scoured lands
on ten quadrillion purring wheels, a wave of
stampeding machinery, throwing up trees.

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June 18, 2017

Slow(er)

by A. Marie

As we walk our backs are low, our hearts pointing into our guts,
roll and hardened into seashells, gripped inside, the soft parts threatening
to spill onto the carpet.

We are not being defeated by malice – just absent-minded greed.
The foundation is removed brick by brick beneath our reddened soles.

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June 7, 2017

Last Gate

by A. Marie

I know that I forgot to love you.
I know that I forgot to sew back on the sleeve.
I know that the arm that is now bare, and bears the marks,
forgot to extend, grasp, and lift he.

I am aware that I was born.
I am aware I am less than what was allotted to me.
I am aware that I caused great harm,
that I never granted explanation to she.

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May 31, 2017

Not, Never I

by A. Marie

Surrender, not I,
I will pluck a stem of hemlock, eat it,

let be licked by a savage storm at sea, no havens
no safe harbors for me, I would rather be beaten

than surrender, rather be severed from my legs
than lie down, rather run

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May 29, 2017

Up Boy

by A. Marie

Up he is, among the peaks and towers and airliners and birds,
a ballooning mind, teetering and spry, leaping, lurching,
high, strung out as wire, conversing with the pushmi-pullyu
of the times, and hollering out equations laced in lies, too
ropey, thinly boned, composed of an avian sweater knitted
by his father who fashioned him a helmet made of toothpicks,
he throws fits, says he had a dream he never had a mother,

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May 23, 2017

Coffee With A Side Of Pining

by A. Marie

Sleuth of my loins keeps himself to the doings of sudden street crossings,
most irregular comings and goings, having an epiphany
at the ferry, realizing that he must go right now, hurry off to
dream of me, write visions of me, lay in a bed of uncomfortable need
for me, address my shadow, confess his most sinful thoughts to my coat
I left hanging on his peg by his doorway, his collar constantly tightening,
his hands constantly needing unwinding, his armpits

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May 16, 2017

Heronswood

by A. Marie

I can walk the world in the Heronswood,
I can walk and talk with the horticulturists
and the nature gods. I can meet with cultures
I never knew, the Thalictrum, the Fuchsia,
the Phlox, the Hakonechloa. With my fingers
I can brush the Bishop’s Hat, with my toes

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April 27, 2017

New Life

by A. Marie

There is one leg left

and there she wobbles.

Weak filly tumbling towards
new swells, feverish

rebirth, yanking at her sinews,
eager to move for the

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April 25, 2017

A Short Story About Us After They’ve Gone

by A. Marie

She is a winged doe, plodding along the kitchen tile,
hither/thither clipping orchids, melting wax, reaching out
to catch the tray of flutes before it falls—
but it falls, makes such a racket, cacophony of clattering
she curses, spouts a string of psalms and esoteric verses,
kicks the chunks of shards and tires her feet,
shoves it in a corner and forgets about it until the night,
slings the cupboards open and demands I climb
to the tippy-most tower where her grandfather’s
old boozy glassware has waited five decades to be touched,

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April 14, 2017

Of Chincoteague and Longing

by A. Marie

You have the makings
Of a mustang, long legs

And long neck. Veins
That bulge in the noontime,

Blue as sapphire under
Moonlight. Your auburn mane

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April 11, 2017

The Lonely Stair

by A. Marie

At its height aloneness is the pale star.

So far, and distant, when the light at last reaches our eye
it is one hundred years gone.

I act accordingly,
(my god is an outlier god)
when all are in rise,
I must fall, when all are out walking, I must be sitting,
when all are descending, I must ascend, for when the powers tied
the strings, I was not to be found at my station along the line.

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April 4, 2017

Omissions

by A. Marie

If you don’t wish to know, why do you
slip, slide under closed doors, take to

shadows, slither, hook-line-sinker-er into
the coat-rack with eyes wide, ears hungry;

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March 24, 2017

What We Are

by A. Marie

We are heads clacking together,
Stiff blades that clash and shatter we are
Sparking,
Flint and rock into fire,
We are two wolves left howling at the moon.

We are a rising of a wave
And the shatter,
We move with the seasons and with
The whales,
We are thighs arching, napes cracking,
We are bones that have yet to die.

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March 16, 2017

Tall

by A. Marie

It is eleven, and we are the early night.
Daddy hasn’t forgiven our existence yet,
Daddy hasn’t gotten out of the car,
Daddy doesn’t remember how to change a tire,
Daddy doesn’t love us at all;
Mommy won’t come outside into the daylight,
Mommy won’t wander the halls until we sleep,
Mommy doesn’t remember how to drink wine
Without spending the next 24 hours dreaming.

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March 7, 2017

The Wheel

by A. Marie

Inside this cir – cle, ten billion hands are pushing,
wheeling us around the universe,
searching for the light.

We have the torches, but the stars
we are not yet alighting, our agency stunted
by the promises of a silent creator.

From my window, I am watching the spectacle;
it is a ring of fire, plowing over the land,
a racing bright wind, burning and eating.

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