“letter to baby brother”
you are born with a snake climbing into your belly like a hose filling you up with screams
like I scream you scream we all scream for ice cream
and it's melted all over you
vanilla ice cream from you splashing in mommy's bowl
mommy's big round moonbelly
you're as bald as the moon
you're as bald as Earl from church
daddy says he has a head like a ping-pong ball
but you have a head like a squashed peach
and frog legs;
I gave you a kiss, frog prince
but you didn't turn into a person
mommy says you will if I'm patient
I'm trying to be patient.
did you know you used to be a tadpole?
before you were a tadpole you were a dinosaur
and before you were a dinosaur you were stars
and before you were stars you were
nothing
probably.
frog prince, did you hear the songs I sang to you?
you should know your ABCs by now.
and twinkletwinklelittlestar.
frog prince, did you feel the kisses I sent blowing down mommy's bellybutton hole?
I will teach you all about dinosaurs
stegosauruses and tyrannosauruses and rexes
they all turned to bones when a star fell on them
and I will teach you all about stars,
how they're not fireflies or God like I used to think
but grandma says God is up there
and even though I've looked for a long time I've never seen him
although I'm pretty sure if God's up there then so is Jesus and Santa and the Easter Bunny.
firetruck mouth you siren so loud it wakes up all the people.
stop screaming so big
don’t you know it is hard to scream and sleep at the same time
and the three things you need to grow are water, sunlight, and dreams
so goodnight baby brother
goodnight frog prince
goodnight moonhead
I will play with you when you turn into a person.
Showing posts with label letter poem. Show all posts
Showing posts with label letter poem. Show all posts
Wednesday, 20 April 2011
Monday, 11 April 2011
April 10
“to the boy I asked to the dance six years ago”
I never told you thank you.
Your hull-rough chin,
protractor corners,
and envelope lips
taught me that the thing I like most about boys
is Old Spice.
I do not regret the porchfront moment when
you asked for a kiss and I said No;
thank you for answering
the question I had not yet asked myself:
now I know
I like Old Spice best
on girls.
I never told you thank you.
Your hull-rough chin,
protractor corners,
and envelope lips
taught me that the thing I like most about boys
is Old Spice.
I do not regret the porchfront moment when
you asked for a kiss and I said No;
thank you for answering
the question I had not yet asked myself:
now I know
I like Old Spice best
on girls.
Thursday, 7 April 2011
April 6
“advice to my middle school self”
You will not always feel like an alien.
At some point you will also stop telling people
you are trying to contact the mothership
by twisting your earrings around on the dashboard of your ears.
When you wish your boobs rivaled Angela’s
Stop it.
When they bloom brighter than hers, do note berate yourself.
It is not your fault.
When Mr. Filer tells you
you can’t wear the purse you pack with embarrassment
– a toothbrush, pads, and braces rubber bands –
to his algebra class,
do not cry. Do not unzip anything.
When Mr. Boyd tells you girls are only good for cartwheels and somersaults,
research Title IX.
Even though you will never win a single wrestling match on the PE mats,
you will triumph.
When Kim asks you at Cassie’s slumber party if you are a prude,
do not ask what this means.
Pretend to be asleep.
While the other girls list boys
they would like to kiss,
always choose Dare.
Do not tell them how your insides sparked
every time Erika unfurled her lips in science class the day
you learned about heat convection.
Even though you will invoke his name like salvation,
the girls do not know that you do not actually know Kevin.
You do not need to carry a concealed camera on the last day of school
to convince them that you like him.
That’s called overcompensating, and it’s creepy.
When Logan calls you a know-it-all, do not turn cherry-cheeked.
Do not give him the answers to the Spanish homework.
When Jens tells you he has a secret and the first letter is G,
the next two letters are A and Y.
When you finally figure this out,
do not then shout “You’re gay?! COOL!” when the hallway
is cluttered with students.
But do hug him.
When Loraina asks you if you’re a Christian,
do not say yes, because then she will ask you what denomination you are
and there is no denomination that celebrates
Kwanzaa, Yom Kippur, Dia de los Muertos, and Solstice.
Invent your own gods. Give them Latin names.
Listen when she tells you about heaven,
but object when she tells you Jens’ boyloving heart is captained by demons.
She will not do it again.
When your brother makes you mad,
do not kick him in the balls. He will punch you back.
Steal one piece of his Halloween candy instead.
Stop wearing that goddamn jingle bell on your shoe.
And stop telling people it’s there so you don’t lose yourself.
Losing yourself and finding yourself are pretty much the same thing
and neither require constant noise.
When Cam walks around shirtless to let the
henna paste dragon dig its two-week-long claws into the cave wall of her back,
do not stare.
When at 3am she falls asleep in the crevice between your chest and your arms,
remember to breathe.
When you are absolutely totally one hundred percent sure everyone else is asleep
whisper a kiss into her hair; she will not wake up
but everything inside of you will suddenly sunrise, and even though
you know that the universe is expanding at the rate of 71 kilometers per second per Megaparsec
this will be the first time
your heart understands exactly what the universe is going through.
You will not always feel like an alien.
At some point you will also stop telling people
you are trying to contact the mothership
by twisting your earrings around on the dashboard of your ears.
When you wish your boobs rivaled Angela’s
Stop it.
When they bloom brighter than hers, do note berate yourself.
It is not your fault.
When Mr. Filer tells you
you can’t wear the purse you pack with embarrassment
– a toothbrush, pads, and braces rubber bands –
to his algebra class,
do not cry. Do not unzip anything.
When Mr. Boyd tells you girls are only good for cartwheels and somersaults,
research Title IX.
Even though you will never win a single wrestling match on the PE mats,
you will triumph.
When Kim asks you at Cassie’s slumber party if you are a prude,
do not ask what this means.
Pretend to be asleep.
While the other girls list boys
they would like to kiss,
always choose Dare.
Do not tell them how your insides sparked
every time Erika unfurled her lips in science class the day
you learned about heat convection.
Even though you will invoke his name like salvation,
the girls do not know that you do not actually know Kevin.
You do not need to carry a concealed camera on the last day of school
to convince them that you like him.
That’s called overcompensating, and it’s creepy.
When Logan calls you a know-it-all, do not turn cherry-cheeked.
Do not give him the answers to the Spanish homework.
When Jens tells you he has a secret and the first letter is G,
the next two letters are A and Y.
When you finally figure this out,
do not then shout “You’re gay?! COOL!” when the hallway
is cluttered with students.
But do hug him.
When Loraina asks you if you’re a Christian,
do not say yes, because then she will ask you what denomination you are
and there is no denomination that celebrates
Kwanzaa, Yom Kippur, Dia de los Muertos, and Solstice.
Invent your own gods. Give them Latin names.
Listen when she tells you about heaven,
but object when she tells you Jens’ boyloving heart is captained by demons.
She will not do it again.
When your brother makes you mad,
do not kick him in the balls. He will punch you back.
Steal one piece of his Halloween candy instead.
Stop wearing that goddamn jingle bell on your shoe.
And stop telling people it’s there so you don’t lose yourself.
Losing yourself and finding yourself are pretty much the same thing
and neither require constant noise.
When Cam walks around shirtless to let the
henna paste dragon dig its two-week-long claws into the cave wall of her back,
do not stare.
When at 3am she falls asleep in the crevice between your chest and your arms,
remember to breathe.
When you are absolutely totally one hundred percent sure everyone else is asleep
whisper a kiss into her hair; she will not wake up
but everything inside of you will suddenly sunrise, and even though
you know that the universe is expanding at the rate of 71 kilometers per second per Megaparsec
this will be the first time
your heart understands exactly what the universe is going through.
Friday, 1 April 2011
April 1
"love letter to my body"
trigger warning: body issues, eating disorder
Dear body,
I have not always been the most faithful.
I have loved the Indianas of other women’s bellies
and the Appalachians of their ilia.
I have imagined their tiny clementine breasts in place
of your heirloom melons. I have
accused your hands of the crime of
being too wise –
I’m sorry for that.
I have treated you less like a temple
and more like a temptation
to call my skin sin.
From my father I received my nose
hairs,
doll-size ears,
and knees on rusty hinges;
from my mother,
feet that like to run,
myopia,
and the trichotillomania that compels me to
pothole my face
into a road so ragged it is difficult to
reach the destination of my eyes
without getting stuck along the way.
Dear body,
do you remember when Alex’s mom
used to call me Skinny Minnie and
you stood tall as birthday balloons
like you had accomplished something
simply by existing?
Remember when, three years later,
Mom said “chubby”
and you deflated like you had failed?
I know we have a grab bag history:
our handshakes with anorexia
(never a closer relationship) giving way to
our barnacle-knuckled grip
on body positivity.
I learned how to read a scale before
I learned how to take my own
pulse.
I have loved you loudly,
but sometimes those who love their
bodies loudest still believe they would
love their bodies louder if their bellies grew
perpendicular to gravity.
Dear body,
you have transformed paper into art,
bicycles into vehicles,
and rum into kisses and
impossible amounts of urine –
and people say you’re not magic?
you are not a temple –
you are the prayers that fill it.
Dear body,
I think you should know that
I did not learn to love the Venus curve of my belly
until I saw it shining on the
hip bone horizons of other girls.
I know that’s not how it’s supposed to work –
you’re supposed to love yourself before you’re capable
of loving others –
but
the human heart is capable of firehosing blood for 30 feet
just imagine how far love could travel
if you aimed it right
and what it could do
reflected in the mirrors of other people’s arms.
trigger warning: body issues, eating disorder
Dear body,
I have not always been the most faithful.
I have loved the Indianas of other women’s bellies
and the Appalachians of their ilia.
I have imagined their tiny clementine breasts in place
of your heirloom melons. I have
accused your hands of the crime of
being too wise –
I’m sorry for that.
I have treated you less like a temple
and more like a temptation
to call my skin sin.
From my father I received my nose
hairs,
doll-size ears,
and knees on rusty hinges;
from my mother,
feet that like to run,
myopia,
and the trichotillomania that compels me to
pothole my face
into a road so ragged it is difficult to
reach the destination of my eyes
without getting stuck along the way.
Dear body,
do you remember when Alex’s mom
used to call me Skinny Minnie and
you stood tall as birthday balloons
like you had accomplished something
simply by existing?
Remember when, three years later,
Mom said “chubby”
and you deflated like you had failed?
I know we have a grab bag history:
our handshakes with anorexia
(never a closer relationship) giving way to
our barnacle-knuckled grip
on body positivity.
I learned how to read a scale before
I learned how to take my own
pulse.
I have loved you loudly,
but sometimes those who love their
bodies loudest still believe they would
love their bodies louder if their bellies grew
perpendicular to gravity.
Dear body,
you have transformed paper into art,
bicycles into vehicles,
and rum into kisses and
impossible amounts of urine –
and people say you’re not magic?
you are not a temple –
you are the prayers that fill it.
Dear body,
I think you should know that
I did not learn to love the Venus curve of my belly
until I saw it shining on the
hip bone horizons of other girls.
I know that’s not how it’s supposed to work –
you’re supposed to love yourself before you’re capable
of loving others –
but
the human heart is capable of firehosing blood for 30 feet
just imagine how far love could travel
if you aimed it right
and what it could do
reflected in the mirrors of other people’s arms.
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