O•fell•ia

Tarry Fail
Sleep, sit and shit here in my tower.
Blue splinters in my toes, all in a rose!

Whilst I wait like bait for to let down my hair,
I shall stare at the mirror.
Which wicked witch will I see?
The Old Woman, the Fair Maiden or me?

Ay me! Which perfect Prince—or Beast—shall set me free?
With a Sword? With an Apple?
Perhaps a Kiss?
Or just thee?

I remember that

Once upon a time
they lived
Happily Ever After.


Just as if her daddy loved her
She dresses just as if her daddy loved her.

But he doesn’t.

Left her.

And left
Strangled memories for bedtime stories
Mama’s tears for breakfast’s bread
Empty hands across each street

Maybe even

Hunger and cold
To hold as siblings
Against her skin and bones.


But Mama,

She takes care of her baby
As best she can.
Loves her more than her own skin and bones.

And she works—
She works so she can dress her baby
As if that nothing—

but pain—

loved her.


Adolelesssense
Fluorescent lights harsh on the already red marsh of zits.
Her half-closed bulbous eyes blink into the murky mirror.

She dreamt she woke and cut her hair half-way up
the braid she had forgotten to loosen before she lay down
in her basement bedroom.

There where her cats made moths into dusty picnics
as the sun sucked away at the already gray carpet upon which
she always went barefoot—

the footsteps upstairs sounded like faltering heartbeats through the ceiling-floor.

This cluttered purgatory of falling apart furniture
her parents had bought before they were married.
And a frightening splatter of orange, black and blue
that her father had painted—and she had convinced herself she liked.

Why did she choose a waiting-white eyelet comforter
to court her closet without doors?

She would never reconcile herself
to the muffled sounds from above
that lulled her into darkness
like her mother’s voice used to.

She stretched her hands out for hearts,
but her hands tangled in hair
and backs that never knew.

The globular lamp in the corner whispered romances
while bathwater licked at her.

And she was hungry
for hands, for home,
but couldn’t go upstairs.



A girl addressing her stomach
I know you are hungry.

So am I.

I’ll feed you tomorrow.
Climb the bloody stares to my throat.
Bite the bile from my tongue.

What must I stomach, Stomach?
I’d rather starve
Let emptiness carve
Against these cravings—

For hair! For eyelashes! For full lips!
For love!
For love

I will be the bone
that Hunger gnaws on.


Mirror Stage
So I broke a mirror

Seven years bad luck
Should sweep or else someone will cut—
themselves—
If they haven’t already.
I wonder if I would bleed—
For—Seven years
bad luck—is that some Greek myth?
I’d like to see it—
scratching my
hard skin edge-soft.
I scar scared
Already am

So I broke a mirror

But the mirror broke me first.


Ill Literacy
Scratching with her fingers

Scratching at her wrist

Surely, surely

Anyone can read blood.


O•feel•ia
She crossed her arms—
As if this could hold her.

But she was empty.
And how to contain this absence?


Exposure
The half-light
Of half-night

Dirty snow shining in the moonlight
She wears her backless halter tight

Attention keeps her warm—
Desire’s hot eyes encircling like an arm

But she will come to harm—
She has sold herself to the cold.


Gutter
gut her glut her
smut her slut her
cut her cunt her
shut her

down in the gutter

where you belong


Still Green
I am trampled grass
Still green—yes! And hopeful
But will you please wait to pass?
I’m resting to rise again
Please don’t step ‘til then!

The ground is cold and comforting
I’m fertilized with fear
But my blade will unbend
I will soon have strength to defend
What you so casually crushed.


Green Nurse
Underneath the old blue spruce
On the hill
Grass, downy and sparse as baby’s hair, grows.

She would rest there
But for the milk-brown mud.

But the grass glows
Such a startling green
Such a helpless color

That she is tempted
To spend eternity brushing it

Forsaking clothes and company.


inHERitance
Book pages
Father’s rages
Sworn by the same voice

Do not be meek, Child!
Do not be weak, Child!

Speak—Your peace!

With the words he gave
Renounce the slave

With skin, build
A temple

Against his bricks
Against his blocks

Against his sticks
Against his stocks

Hold the world
Against your breast

There let it rest
For we attest to

Dis man till
The master’s house

With the plough share
With the pruning hook
With the ample anvil

We will sit under vines
We will sit under fig trees

And Feed All!