24

Here, at twenty-four
I sit, thicker than before
Older than i ever dreamed --
I am 17 no more --
I am not 17

If i were in Jane Austen, i
Would sit upon the shelf --
A Charlotte settling
But i -- i am, my self:

Too old to be a princess
Can't wait for any knight
I find i must content myself
To live my life --

To love an admirable man
To be a daily wife
To put off scrubbing toilets,
To cook dinners daily, and
To live a daily life

To crucify desires
(I wanted breathless beauty)
To learn the sweetness of small things -- of
Diligence, and duty --

To ripen daily into flesh
Softer and more heavy --
To learn to live in roundness
Around a husband's body --

When i was 17 i longed
To live brief, sharp and bright;
I'm 24. Those dreams are gone.
I want
To live in peace, to
Love your light --

And all that i once wanted
All the dreams i've lost --
For all i have been granted,
I cannot count the cost.
I have received
Too much.

O i am blessed
I do believe --
I am not 17 now,
I am not 17.

For my mother

One day also my mother will arrive in Heaven,
trembling, pulling her brother's garment
tight around her shoulders,
trembling before that great, bright throne:
 And all the tears she's cried
in all her days here,
and all the tears she's swallowed --
She will find God has been keeping them
in His pocket.
He will give her a necklace He has made of them.
It will be more beautiful than diamonds.
And all her smiles, all her laughs
will be embroidered onto her new robes
in rainbow reds and purples.

When she is a queen,
my mother will have dinner with C.S. Lewis,
eat fresh, buttery pasta,
talk theology and life.
G.K.C. will forget to eat.
For dessert, Jesus will join them,
and she will bake her dutch apple pie
with sweet walnut streusel.
He will say it is best pie He has ever eaten.

My mother will work long days in her part of the Garden,
burn brown and happy
sweating between rows of strong beans and fragrant tomatoes.
My mother will have endless days to sit, to muse, to write,
to meditate.
She will write true stories, heartbreaking poems.
All the saints will read them.
My mother will have a horse in heaven,
a fond, sweet, sassy mare.
She will go riding with Jesus over green hills.
Sometimes they will talk about their Father.
Sometimes they will just ride.

When she is a queen,
after dark my mother will sit
with her sister queens
in robes the bright colours of the world:
peacock, emerald, purple.
They will rest on the porch, watch fireflies
breathe in the sweet smells of the night
talk about their King
drink wine sweet and heady as red roses.
They will laugh.

One day we her children also will arrive, and we --
We will praise her at those gold shining gates.

Eve was a lovely lady (ballad)

Eve was a lovely lady
Lived in a lovely garden
Where all the trees grew tall and straight
To live there was no burden

It was a lovely garden there
All dark and sweet the soil
Oh I would walk in that garden there
But i am cursed to toil
Because of Eve

Eve had a husband Adam
They loved to play together
When they had done their gardening
So lovely was the weather:

Oh it was a lovely garden there
All green and sweet the leaves
Oh i would walk in that garden there
But i am doomed to grieve
Because of Eve

Of all that garden full of trees
Eve might enjoy the fruit so sweet
Save one tree only -- of that tree
God said, she must not eat.


So ripe and round that fruit did seem
So tempting-sweet and tart
And when the serpent sang its praise
Eve felt it stroke her heart

If i could taste that fruit, she said
And know that full round love
Would i not be like God? she said?
Would that not be enough?

Oh it was a lovely garden there
All dark and sweet its soil
Oh i would walk in that garden there
But i am cursed to toil
Because of Eve

The snake was just the messenger --
It was her heart that sinned
Oh Eve would be God to her self
And worship what was in
Or like her self

Oh it was a lovely garden there
All green and sweet the leaves
Oh i would walk in that garden there
But i am doomed to grieve
Because of Eve

So ripe and round that fruit did seem
So tempting-sweet and tart
The lady bit the fruit -- the taste
Was bitter: her own heart,
Her own dark heart.

Oh it was a lovely garden there
All green and sweet its leaves
Oh i dream of that garden there
But i am bound to grieve
Because of Eve

Tulips

The peony, perhaps --
Her hundred wanton lips
Curling or dropping,
Windblown, antvisited --

May marvel at the tulip
Who, demure,
Unfolds herself into
That sure, spare bowl --

The tulip, who, frill-unobscured
Blushes her pink, her
Firm bright red, her
Confident yellow --


Perhaps the peony --
Pouting, flirting, gives herself
More sweetly to the earth
Than her tall
Unbending sister --

Yet this is sure:
That love is no less deep
Is no less pure
That unfolds itself in days
quiet, straight, sure.

Apostrophe: Apostrophe

Apostrophe!
Apostrophe!
Why must you be so difficult to use?
Daily i wince at idiots' abuse
of you.
Don't you see
The way they stick you everywhere
You properly
ought not to be?

Apostrophe!
I want to cry!
Youre like an eyelash
grating
in my eye:
Making plural's,
Not possessives
or contractions.
Obscene exposure,
indecent action's:
id really rather
much not see
so much of you,
Apostrophe.

Apostrophe!
I want to weep!
Put myself to sleep!
English is a dying art.
I'm not a philistine.
"Improper" grammar doesn't turn me green.
Linguistic evolution
Exists -- but being stupid
Is always wrong,
Apostrophe.

Breathe

I don't know how to breathe today. Somehow

my lungs forget their instinct/memory.

Each inspiration is an act of will. Reluctant will: i don’t

know, today, how to breathe in without a press of pain.

I don’t know how to breathe. The laundry looms

in bedroom corners, stinking, faintly sour.

The bathroom sink is rimed in toothpaste, the countertop carpeted

in strands of my long hair, the shower greasy with the unscrubbed buildup of our skin.

Outside my unwashed windows might as well bristle a hedge of thorns,

so thick and silent is the coverlet of dust on every face.

I wrap myself in this detritus, I cocoon myself in stale bedsheets,

inkstainless, I let words flit into my brain, then toss them out

so many papermoths freed. 

I cocoon myself

in the stale bedsheets; I teach myself to breathe. Again,

I teach myself to breathe. Next moment,

I teach myself to breathe.

Anorexic, Alphabetic

Avocados are off limits -- full of fat. Also
bread, bananas, butter, beef,
chocolate, candy, cookies, cake.
Dinner (I ate at my friend's!).
Eggs: eat the white part.
Fast food -- say, "I love french fries!" Steal one only. Dip it five times into ketchup.
Green beans are OK. Twenty calories is safe! Avoid
Hash browns in their evil calorific ovals, and
ice cream:  i'm lactose intolerant!
jelly. Just sugar -- it doesn't count as fruit.
King Ranch Casserole: cheese, chicken, tortillas (Carbs!).
Lasagna. (Eat a bit of beef out of the sauce. Say  "Yum!" Say "i'm stuffed!")
Macaroni. (Sometimes i dream about those noodles coddled in their creamy cheese.
Noodles of any kind are a no-no. Sauce is a pitfall.
One bite is enough. Just one -- say "Thanks!" Stir it. Say "I'm stuffed!")
Pizza = panic. Say "I already ate."
"Queasy" will work the first time, or eight.
Remember to nibble, to rearrange, to
Stir. Camouflage your plate.
Tiny is better than tasty! Don't tell the truth,
Unless you want a residential hell ...
Vomiting -- the last resort. Better than absorption.
Water. Drink lots of water. A glass every half hour. Remember:
X on flesh.Remember peace. Remember power.
You can do it -- you can win.Think thin. Thin. Think
Zero.