LOVELIFE

Bridges Like Balconies

A pipe plays softly in San Francisco
pick-pocketing people from hes-
itation and homes.
Seventysoulsperyear
pulled from prudence and
seventysailboatsayear
pull them from the bay.

Into the street the Piper stept,
as if he knew what magic slept
in his quiet pipe the while.

His music hypnotizes the heaviest hearts
(the ones that sink on the spot)
seducing them into suicide
with seventy-five meters and a four-second drop,
with nothing to stop them but cars passing in the wind.

And out of the houses the rats came tumbling.

He’s able to charm them into chains
draw them like drones
drag them
drop them
drown them
and he purrs as they plummet.

He promised death to those that come,
all creatures living ‘neath the sun,
that creep or swim or fly or run,
on creatures that do people harm.

He makes them dance till they die,
playing his pipe as they plunge
but as the collision cracks their ribcages
they can’t hear him
and as the water fills their lungs
they can’t hear him.

Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives,
followed the Piper for their lives.

But he can’t dance them past the golden gates.

1 note
Leave Note / Reblog
My writing poetry free verse pied piper suicide

I Will Never Leave Montreal

I’ve stumbled into beds with him,
french whispers falling clumsily over my spine.
I asked him nicely
how to make love in prose
le mot juste-
he said as he kissed my neck,
le mot juste-
as he slid a hand up my dress.
I mumbled a nod
while he pushed poetry into my ears.

They don’t mean a thing to me
mais le mot juste-
rings in my head.
Such sound and sincerity,
language just sounds better en francais,
love just tastes better en francais.
Je t’aime de tout mon cœur
is so much more convincing.

french falls in a hush down my back and
even though I was warm,
I was shivering.

5 notes
Leave Note / Reblog
My writing poetry free verse Montreal le mot juste

homesick

she sleeps in hostels next to homeless wanderers that hang
lonely breaths and heavy bags on walls in lieu of memories.
she tucks her home beneath her pillow just like mum told her.

no sense in smothering sweet-scented moments
with pillows that remind her of tooth fairies, tickle monsters
and hands bouncing between mum and dad.

each country warms her heart, homelike smells and sounds
too dear to be left behind in a sheltered, vacant room
she said she’d pack light but brought it all along.

she pokes her head from any Irish window
and spots her backyard with the elephant slide and yellow swing-set
where dad would push her with such force, she felt she was flying

and, as she walks along the cobblestone streets of Italy
the smell of nonna’s gnocchi and the sound of mum’s dialect
rushes up to kiss her once on each cheek

nowadays her heart rifles through old homes,
mom on the living room floor, with needle and thread,
sewing the holes in her jeans and gaps in her soul.

she often lingers on the porch where she told mum she was scared
and mum would only ever have to whisper and they wouldn’t hurt her.
laying in a hostel bed in a room full of memories, they never did.

1 note
Leave Note / Reblog
My writing poetry free verse homesick family

Ode to Family Photos

she pays close attention to their hands
sees the way they cling to one another
sees water droplets next to her mother’s thumb
is careful to not look up

the first photo of many I wish that I could burn

a pumpkin patch
a mom, a dad and three wide-eyed faces
bunny ears in the shape of a glove
contentment of a once-was family

I will never forget the smell of family hayrides in the fall

he holds the camera as she cuts the cake
so many pictures of baths, birthdays and ballets

there should’ve been more pictures of them

he looks at the girl and sees
the round eyes and heart-shaped face
the woman he tries to shut out
minute mementos of a fuck-up.
he finds it hard not to hate his little girl too.

he stopped looking at me so he could stop hating me

they swore at each other behind closed doors
all she could do was wash their angry mouths with soap

why did they need to take so many god damn pictures

arms drawn to the children
bruised skin from the obligatory pity
a drunk uncle doesn’t know what to say
so says it all

they didn’t wear black but you’d think someone died

I love you’s enough only to fill their lungs
hitting them the one place it didn’t hurt,
a bottle of cloud for anesthesia

can’t they see we are gasping for everything but love

the crooks broke the girl’s heart
but didn’t steal a thing
not even the spoiled memories
she practically threw at their open mouths

there isn’t any trunk big enough to fit what they’ve destroyed

they say
two christmases, two birthdays, two families
I say

I am sick and tired of two homes and two lives and two birthdays

the walls will flicker endlessly with family photographs
each one will smother you and get caught in your throat
she begs you to close your eyes.
please be careful not to look up.

Leave Note / Reblog
My writing poetry divorce free verse

little boys

they used to fetch fireflies
with glass jars
one by one breaking their tails off,
splashing the insides on their sleeves
so they would glow in the dark.

pleased, their pops would watch
and sometimes demonstrate
how to pick the biggest and brightest,
how to play with frogs and fire.

the three boys fetched a frog, mid-hop,
swearing and laughing and
(their pops told them frogs like red)
placing red firecrackers in the grass.
the frog swallowed the firecracker,
the boys’ favourite part being the
hop, hop, pop.
they laughed till their stomachs hurt
laughed all the way to lunch thinking,
This is way more fun than burning bugs.

twenty years later
one of the boys had a son
and that son was his father’s son.
he laughed and swore and when he grew of age
was struck with an idea:
he could fetch a frog (like a shuttlecock)
with a badminton racquet.
it didn’t work so instead he beat it,
squashed it with the racquet,
walking away pleased.

pleased, their pops would watch
and their pops before that
sitting and watching
smiling and teaching,
begging the question
if little boys do little things
what then
is left for the big boys?

1 note
Leave Note / Reblog
My writing poetry free verse childhood

just before it falls

She watches her grandfather
breathe to the beat of his heart monitor.
Pressing her lips against his forehead
she whispers wonderingly,
I can’t wait until autumn.
her grandfather looks at her thoughtfully
she says, In autumn
the whole world will look like you.

Poking a hand out from beneath her sleeve,
she connects his age spots,
running a finger so sweetly
along his wrinkles and veins.
She smiles at his colours, his spots,
at the rings resting ‘round his eyes and mouth
(he stretches them out with a smile)

When autumn came ‘round,           
all of the leaves weren’t green anymore,
each was a hundred shades of itself—
grandpa’s skin was a hundred shades of itself.
The white of his hair accenting
blue rivers that wrap his bones,
those ones you swear you can see, protruding
at the elbows, the knees
the collarbone
(the closest we will get to his skeleton)

As time passes, just like grandpa, the leaves
are daubed with an extra shade and stroke,
their true colours bursting from the branches.
And though their edges curled up into themselves,
shriveled and about to float towards the earth,
no flower of spring
no snowflake of winter
was ever quite as beautiful to Rosie
as the sincerity of an orange, red,
or yellow leaf,
just before it falls.

8 notes
Leave Note / Reblog
My writing poetry free verse autumn aging grandfather

cold shoulders, warm thighs

her hips hugging her dress howl
a brand of birdsong
so haunting and faultless
my chest heaves and holds on

they draw me from my dark burrow
promising wings and warmth
legs and lust
a cut above the rest

in the belly of my soul
those bare thighs move me
they whisper sweet allure
and I ache to run a thumb
over throbbing muscles
as she passes

wishing only to be lovebirds, I
plucked her
from where she wandered
allowing her to wordlessly
stick her finger in my mouth
pull my lips into a smile
and tug me by a hook and thread

and like a city dove
she stands on ledges like cliffs
while I coo
on cobblestone streets beneath her

my feathers fall to the floor
as I swell my chest
while her hips
without hesitation
head south for the winter
I haunt myself now
breaking my bones
harboring birdsongs in silence—

3 notes
Leave Note / Reblog
My writing free verse poetry pigeon wallflower