Category: Poetry

Feminist Masculinity

After Feminism Is for Everybody, by bell hooks.

You are 32.
On your way to work, you listen to an audiobook
where bell hooks talks about
how difficult it is to teach boys feminism,
how feminist masculinity is often ignored
for simplified narratives of blame and finger pointing
rather than rebuilding society.

You are 27.
During an English department meeting, 
a colleague from another school remarks 
how good you are at
being the only man in the room.

You are 25.
On your daily walk around your neighborhood,
your dad calls.
He tells you about his family, the latest news about your cousin,
how nonsensical it is
her best friend to be a man.

You are 17.
You work in the kitchen of a restaurant.
You mostly interact with servers, 
most of whom are women.
It is taken as a truism:
women get better tips than men; you belong in the kitchen.

You are 12.
During your sixth-grade class’s sex ed. unit,
your teacher talks about
biological differences between boys and girls.
She singles you out for being a boy with long eyelashes,
a trait associated with girls.

You are seven.
Your mom is driving you home from daycare.
You ask her about her day.
She tells you about work you don’t understand,
coworkers that frustrate her.
You ask her if her coworkers are her friends.
She tells you men and women
just can’t be friends.

Can’t Find the Words

After Swing, by Kwame Alexander and Mary Rand Hess.

The nation's pulse
can be found in
Charles Mingus's fingers
walking on an upright bass.

There's so much I want to
say to you,
so much I can't
find words for.

Have you ever heard Coltrane
run up and down a scale,
then deconstruct every rule
you thought you knew?

You're right in front of me,
but I can't reach you–
my hands trapped in my pockets,
my throat dry as August sun.

Find Yourself in the Sky

As you watch the sun set into the Pacific
from your picnic blanket on the rocky shore,
head resting on a driftwood log,
the sky becomes a spectrum.

Bright pink around the sun's edge,
dark blue above the tree line.
People point at features you cannot see.
Their confidence makes you look anyway.

They see something up there for themselves,
something that grounds them— a tether.
Some point toward pink, some blue, some in between.
You keep looking, but it’s all opaque.

a bedroom

a body on the floor
a pool of blood on the carpet

spatter across the frame of a picture
someone in a robe with a diploma

a chair in the corner
under a pile of shirts and jeans

spatter across an unkempt bed
grey comforter with teal bedsheets

a dresser messy with articles and pens
necklaces and earrings

spatter across a full-length mirror
the post-it note affirmations along its edge

a body on the floor
under a thin white sheet

You get to work early.

You get to work early,
pull up into the school’s empty parking lot.
Three street lamps shine their pale glow onto dark asphalt.
The sun hides
behind some blue-black clouds
behind an oft-forgotten portable.

Your car eases into the same spot you always park in:
five east of the planter with the sword ferns.
Its door makes a soft sound as you open it;
it sounds like how you feel when you stretch your quad after a jog.

You walk across the lot, travel mug of coffee in hand.
Crow caws echo off the brick facade of the school,
a faint twee from a tree behind you.
You stop, stand in the middle of the asphalt sea.
Late October.
It’s cold— not heavy-jacket cold, but hug-your-ribs cold.

After a minute or so, you start walking again.
You get out your key, slip it in the lock like a dagger into your victim’s back. 
You think about how improbable it would have been 
to actually pass the stealth check.
You smile, shake your head, go inside.

the girl who lives in your mom’s house

the girl who lives in your mom’s house
cries inside the bedroom walls
when she thinks no one else is there.

the girl who lives in your mom’s house
tosses and turns at night,
awoken by the slightest sound in the dark.

the girl who lives in your mom’s house
laughs at jokes she’s too young for
but was forced to understand anyway.

the girl who lives in your mom’s house
stares into the bathroom mirror,
not recognizing who she sees.

the girl who lives in your mom’s house 
walks from room to room
looking for you.

All Motions Seen, Illusions Done

A scholar, old and dead, once said that all
is fire, in motion like a river’s flow.
A thrown-out match ignites the undergrowth
and trees to wrap the sky in ashen shawl.
The wind will force the rising smoke to crawl
and cover meadows with the sun’s dull glow.
The soil is fed by fallen ash and snow.
The molecules we live in do not stall.

One must be warm if all is made of fire,
but every moment is a photograph
and time the thumbing through to make them run.
To walk a yard, you must walk halfway prior,
and half of that, and half, and half, and half…
And so: all motions seen, illusions done.

dragging a mattress

wake up to bleary shadows.
drag a mattress across the bedroom.
wedge it through the threshold.
lay it down on the kitchen floor while coffee brews.
move to the couch when it’s ready.
tell myself to stay awake.
the mattress thrown askew at the edge of the rug.
a rope leading from its corner to my ankle,
layered knots my fingers can’t maneuver.
take a sip.

balance the mattress on my back with my backpack.
fit it in the trunk of my car.
close the door and walk around—
the rope phases through the frame.
lines blend with the headlights’ glow.
the asphalt, visual white noise.
turn the stereo up.
stay awake.

drag the mattress up two flights of stairs.
hide it under my desk.
nudge the corner in when coworkers come by to talk about weekend plans.
hold firm as it pushes back.

a river drone as I drag its edge across the parking lot.
drive off without putting it in the car.
it bounces on the road, thrashes in the wind.
unharmed in the driveway.

lean it against the coffee table while I eat dinner.
scroll through twitter on my phone.
a snake’s tail coils around my forearm, constricts.
sigh, flick my thumb, take another bite.

no stars here

rain
streets under water
torrent of orange leaves
northerly wind
broken maple branches
broken power lines
blue glow off the main road
tremor in the sky
darkened homes
silent neighborhood
rain

Future Versions of You

I saw a version of you
on a cave tour in South Dakota.
Middle-aged.
Three kids, all with your red hair.
A husband with a circle beard.
An accent from a place you would have stayed closeted.
While ascending 300 steps from our tour’s destination,
you joked about not needing a Stairmaster
if you just lived above a cave.

I saw a version of you
in a national park gift shop.
Late-twenties.
Round, thin-rimmed glasses.
Two older people with you,
maybe members of your extended family
or the people who took you in.
A purple dress with neon-green bats
indicative of a family that let you be different.

I saw a version of you
at an overlook above some badlands.
You were with a photographer,
a graduation photoshoot.
A shirt from an 80s band
under a cardigan two sizes too big.
A dandelion twirled between your fingers.
You looked like you.
You looked happy.