Your woodpecker heart
is knocking at the
wrong trees again,
and you don’t have anywhere to put
the destruction in you.
I don’t know what knocked
it out of you this time,
but I do know that you’re
more than a home
that couldn’t survive the storm.
And you’re more than
the wind that caused it
in the first place.
This is a letter to the first boy that made me feel small.
He happens to be the first boy to tell me that being small was better.
My voice should be quiet, my emotions subdued,
the gap between my thighs larger than my legs themselves.
It is okay; I forgive you.
Gunpowder is packed tightly into cardboard to become fireworks,
all of its molecules taking up as little space as possible,
and I am now a firecracker of a woman.
Let me be clear:
I am intelligent, articulated, educated, loud.
My tummy is full and round, my thighs clap together,
like rounds of applause for every step I take,
for making it this far.
You will have a daughter one day,
and I hope she surprises you
when she bursts from her mother,
I hope she grows up and challenges every conservative view you’ve ever held.
I hope that you never dare tell her to stay small,
but if you do,
I hope she screams right back at you
that she deserves to take up space.
And I know that you were just the first in a long line of men
to tell me no,
but you’re the first one I said no right back to.
And I am stronger and bigger and bolder, because of it.
I forgive you,
but you can still fuck yourself.
December 24th and we’re through again.
This time for good I know because I didn’t
throw you out — and anyway we waved.
No shoes. No angry doors.
We folded clothes and went
our separate ways.
You left behind that flannel shirt
of yours I liked but remembered to take
your toothbrush. Where are you tonight?
Richard, it’s Christmas Eve again
and old ghosts come back home.
I’m sitting by the Christmas tree
wondering where did we go wrong.
Okay, we didn’t work, and all
memories to tell you the truth aren’t good.
But sometimes there were good times.
Love was good. I loved your crooked sleep
beside me and never dreamed afraid.
There should be stars for great wars
like ours. There ought to be awards
and plenty of champagne for the survivors.
After all the years of degradations,
the several holidays of failure,
there should be something
to commemorate the pain.
Someday we’ll forget that great Brazil disaster.
Till then, Richard, I wish you well.
I wish you love affairs and plenty of hot water,
and women kinder than I treated you.
I forget the reason, but I loved you once,
Maybe in this season, drunk
and sentimental, I’m willing to admit
a part of me, crazed and kamikaze,
ripe for anarchy, loves still.
Mouth like the lock on a jewelry
box. Mouth like a bruise,
like something that gets
under the skin.
Mouth like where the hell did she
Mouth like a marching band, like
a parade of sighs.
Mouth like she must be magic,
she must be.
Mouth like pick a card, any card.
Mouth like an opera. Mouth like
I don’t understand you but
I am crying, anyway.
Mouth like a river, like diving
head-first into it. Mouth like a
coffin you want to die in.
Mouth like you’ll never recover,
like nothing will ever be like this
again, and you’re sure of it.
Mouth like do you love her?
Mouth like do you love her or do
you just not want to kiss anyone
We are sitting on your bed, there is distance between us and the silence is suffocating me. I am holding my knees to my chest. My body is shaking; you are quiet. I ask you if you still love me, and you tell me that you are not sure that you ever did.Mariah Gordon-Dyke, The Best, and the Worst Day (via larmoyante)