I’m so happy to see my poem, “Discourse”, in Redactions: Issue 16. This is the 10th anniversary issue of Redactions, a beautiful and unique print journal which focuses on poetics, poetry, and prose.
Issue 16 features literary, thought-provoking, and intelligent work from some amazing writers, and it is available now through Etsy. Check it out! xo
Here
“Come here,” he says, arms extended, and I fall next to him on the bed. I press my body against his body, rest my lips on the curve of his neck. I breathe him in. He pulls me tighter, closer. We haven’t seen each other in a week; words spill, spelled across the surface of body: how are you, who are you, now? His mouth upon mine is a question.
I answer as his tongue slips inside my soft lips, sending thrills of pleasure and deep want inside me. He kisses me hard and encircles me with furious, protective love. His eyes burn, keeping me bound with desire. Spark, slap, tickle. Arms and legs contort in esoteric positions, suspended pleasure-pain. We worship each other’s body, searching the surface of skin for the key to the soul.
We love eye-to-eye, mind-to-mind, body-to-body. Fuck sex, we are making poetry. Outside, the birds are singing violently. I add my own wild call to his, and our song breaks together, lifting across the afternoon sky. After, our bodies entangled, we rest. I hear his breath deepen and listen to the sounds. Woodpecker, warbler, thrush. The world is a symphony.
His lips are half-open, pursed in half-sleep twilight, waking dreams. He stirs with a start, a shudder. “For a second, I didn’t know where you were.” I note how physically close we are. My head is resting against his, my lips are on his shoulder. His arms enfold me, his hands are tightly holding my body to his. Our touch is rough, weighted; our bodies are entwined. Together we appear one body.
“I’m right here,” I say, and he pulls me even closer. There is no place I would rather be. Here, in his arms on a Saturday afternoon, surrounded by sunlight and birdsong, my heart is full to the point of bursting. Here. Present. I smile and embrace the moment, accepting the gift.
*
I’m so happy to have three of my poems – “how we love”, “Muse”, and “He entered this lost empire” – in Issue 6 of Nefarious Ballerina!
Nefarious Ballerina is “a theme-based publication, centered around, for lack of a better word, erotica. This sounds easy enough, but to do it well is the hard part. We are interested in the intelligently erotic.What does that mean? Well, it’s what you say and how you say it that’s important, it’s about sex but it’s also about feelings and morality. It’s the fire that burns in our heads and hearts as well as our loins. It’s more about what goes on above the waist than below it. It’s about the animal in us that makes us human and how much we’ve evolved as a species — and how much we’ve stayed the same.”
Click here to check out the provocative and erotic poetry and art in Issue 6 of Nefarious Ballerina, also available through Issuu.
*
Initiation
She was born on a Tuesday
and developed a fever after birth
antibiotics, tests, precaution, policy
I was sent home without her
every three hours I feed her, with
the exception of two nightly feedings
between midnight and six a.m.
I am here to breastfeed, offer
nourishment. It is all I can give her now.
There is a rocking chair in the storage room
I feed her there, by the small window
and hold her for as long as they let me
the nurses seem to understand, allow me
time to just be with her. I sing and read
and talk to her. She sleeps, sometimes for
hours, in the curve of my arm
across the hall, in the hospital nursery
I hear the endless wall of babies crying
always, even when I go to sleep
their echoes become my nightmares
the crib is empty next to our bed
the pain is tangible, I feel wounded
you are a mother now, they said.
*
Compass
No one tells you what its like
to become a mother.
They don’t tell you the truth
about labor, how birth
enlightens, and how true it is
nothing will ever be the same
Between The Woman’s Room
and Good Housekeeping,
I am reconciling feminism
and motherhood, wondering
how I find myself in these roles
mother, wife, woman.
I am defining my evolution
with a broad compass, I navigate
with flawed accoutrement, touch
and sound, head and heart.
*
how things are broken
He slams the door behind him
shaking the window pane, the wall
shudders at his anger, I whisper
to the baby it’s okay, it’s okay
I rock her slowly, offer her my
breast – she rests, she sleeps
I am grateful. I kiss and hold her
gently lay her in the crib
the silence of the room is deafening
I don’t cry. I hardly make a sound.
There are no victories here.
We don’t know how to fight.
I throw words, terse and careful
and he walks out, leaving me alone.
I sit at the table and turn on the light
a warm glow I once called antique
like the pages of an old book
with that familiar damp smell
I look out the window and am faced
with autumn darkness
the black of night before the leaves
begin to fall and the weather turns
Colder.
*
Light
My days are filled with fragile joy
time is passing by so quickly
I spend time with the children, we
play and I read to them, coordinate
breakfast and lunch, bring one child
to preschool, give the other her nap
hold them, kiss them, watch them
grow in this new environment
this small space I call my own
in the afternoon, light refracts through
the high window, throwing rainbows
on the walls and I am always in awe
at their delight. We have settled in
to a sense of quietness, a sense of peace
and in these moments I am certain
everything will be okay.
*
Healing
The children are sleeping, in a wave
of exhaustion, the scent of sickness
still upon them, the baby
cried and cried until I held her
against my breast and she
finally gave into sleep, rosebud mouth
open, cries still sobbing through her
as if it were involuntary
I laid her in bed and held her tiny body
against the length of my torso
I put my ear to her chest and listened
to her heartbeat, so close to me
through the small frame
of bone, the soft surface of skin.
I heard her heart beat loud and strong
and remembered our doctor’s visits
when she was still in the womb, we
would always begin by baring my
stomach, rubbing the cool, clear gel
white noise of the machine and then
the microphone making its way across
my body, looking for that unmistakable
noise, the faint sound of her fetal heart
and how it never failed
to bring tears to my eyes, each time
I was overcome with it
now she sleeps, nearing one year
outside the womb, she is still becoming
and I hope she can grow strong
in this fragile space, my life.
*
Astronavigation by Michelle Augello-Page by barehandspoetry
This is an audio recording of my poem “Astronavigation”, which was published in Issue Six of Bare Hands Poetry. Be sure to check out Bare Hands Poetry on SoundCloud to hear the voices of poets from all over the world reading their work!
hallowed art thou
sitting in the chair opposite the tattoo artist
it’s been a while since my last confession
I remove my hoodie, revealing ink and scars
a cursory look, he sees more than he wants
to see, feels more than he wants to feel.
he leans towards me and takes my body into
his hands, applies the sting of the needle, calm,
calm, steady, I am resting against his side,
pressed against him, talking about choices and
paths, never giving up, never giving in. And he,
nodding, eager to believe, knowing how many
walk through his door, broken, beaten, needing
to cross thresholds of pain, to grow, to evolve,
to feel, we need the scar, the visible wound
we need to remember, not only what is lost,
but what is found; the absolute gift of being here.
I walk outside blinking in the bright sun,
temporarily blinded by the moment of it all,
the staggering weight of the lightest contact
between us: a white cloth, a crumpled dollar bill.
he is a professional; he touches my face with his
eyes, he says, good luck, I really mean that.
He is not here to give absolution. He is here
for art, for his own redemption, he lives in a world
where the used come to heal; he crosses himself
twice reaching for the mask and gloves, and again,
reaching for the needle, he needs a steady hand,
a steady hand, oh god a steady hand.
*
Still. Here.
Mariko sits with her legs crossed
back straight, chest lifted, eyes
closed. She reminds us to return
always to breath, inhale, exhale
She turns up her hands, placing
one on each knee, and tells us the
folk wisdom that palms upturned
are receptive to gifts from the gods
Following her movement, I try
but my hands resist, they are used
to grasping, to clutching, to holding
on so tightly, afraid to let go
Slowly, each palm unfolds like an
early spring flower, outstretched
vulnerable and wanting, the whole
of my heart beats wildly yes
until I am no longer I. Each breath
is shared by the universe, cosmic
energy, all are one in the fabric of
time and space and energy
opening my eyes again, I return
to my body, my legs and arms and
hands. My mind blinks in the soft
light, and I am (still, here)
*
summer
we sat together closely, hands
touching, arms and legs bare,
while fireflies lit the night
with their shy and brief flame,
looking for a match, for another
soul awake and alive, to share
the soft breeze, to feel summer
swiftly moving across the sky
I laid my head on his shoulder
and he kissed me, as the world
shone with possibilities, sweet
intoxications, love. All of our
blessings, our dreams and gifts,
are touched by angel’s wings;
our souls rush to the surface, in
recognition, in greeting, and the
whole universe shines within,
enchanting our eyes with stars.
*
Social Services
The way of poverty is plastic chairs, dirty walls, oppressive air, fluorescent lights, no windows. It is few men, absent fathers, women, women with children, children crying, children wide-eyed, restless, and bored. It is the long wait to see the clerk, who mispronounces your name and sits behind bullet proof glass, leisurely. The clerk will tell you what else you need to complete your application, and there is always something missing.
*
Breaking the surface of water
Holding my breath
as a child, I remember, sliding
under the warm bath water, and waiting
for the dull thump of my heart
to echo in my head, and that’s when
I knew it was time
and I would allow my body to break
the surface of water
I am back under it, and like a bad dream
I can’t break through. I watch myself
waiting for him to release me, and then
a child’s scream, another bearing witness,
and something primal is released
within me
My body thrashes, I draw up my knees
rock back and forth, anything
to release my pinned arms, the weight
on my chest, his hands around my neck
are no more, never again.
*
EXIT
you came into my mother’s house, you came
into our home, with your bloodshot blue eyes
large hands, blurry ink, and open wounds.
you came with the dark, black dreams
without stars, nightmares holding secrets
and silence, you walked in soft footsteps down
the hall, thinking no one could hear you,
but I learned to never sleep, to close my eyes
and listen, for the rush of air, the push-pull
of a door that had no key, no lock, no exit
and I hated you. I hated you for so long, and
then I felt nothing. It was as if you didn’t exist,
as if you never came into our lives, and
you didn’t touch me. You never touched me.
*
The sidewalk is cracked; loose pebbles, blown
leaves and bits of glass scatter across the pavement.
I survey the path, noting where the tree lifts
the edge of concrete, where the path dips and hollows
I am nervous, but I want her to learn. I promised
to teach her, to ride a bike without training wheels.
I think back to how I learned and remember
my yellow schwinn, the wind hard against my face.
My father promised he wouldn’t let go, but he did
and when I fell, he said, do it again. My body
bruised when I hit the ground, and I learned how
to expect the blow, to fall and feel pain, to get up
again and again; I learned how to use my body
as a negligible thing, to hold back tears, dust off
dirt and blood; to ride alone, I learned the way
of father. But that is not the way of mother.
I want to protect her, I want to cushion the sidewalk
with soft moss, to hold on and not let go until
she is ready. I don’t want her to do it alone. I don’t
want her to learn from pain. I would take her every
hurt and hide it within myself, far from her heart.
I look into her face, so eager and trusting, as she
straps on her helmet, adjusts the pads on her knees,
climbs onto the bicycle, and rings the bell with joy.
She is ready to begin, only noticing the light breeze
of the wind on her skin, and that the sun, falling
onto her silver bell, shines brilliantly.
*
Happy Mother’s Day! xo
Picasso, 1956
Body
Now that I am with child, my body
has become mysterious, more aware
than I am, balancing life within
life, with calculated ease
It is retelling the story of woman,
of man. The body is asserting itself
as a force, like the ocean, swift
and changeable, enduring time
I am now illuminated
by things like my skin, its ability
to stretch akin to a breaking point
and still remain whole
As in puberty, I feel my early self
consciousness rising, the longing
for what has been hiding inside
the promise of what is yet to come
I embrace this body. I trust it.
I am a flawed sculpture of a fertility
goddess, weighted, treading heavily
on the earth.
*
poem to my body
I have lived within this skin, these bones
have grown as I have: infant, girl, woman
my body has been stretched and pulled,
stitched and bruised; I have carried babies
within my womb, I have been a vessel
for milk, and semen, and tears
I have lived behind my body, with folds
of skin protecting me with layers of fat,
with large breasts and hips, a shield, a
weapon, a protection against the world.
I have lived in front of it, skin taut
hollows and jutting bones, putting it before
the world as an equally different weapon,
hard and lean, challenging its strength
I used to wish that I was all mind, that my
body would just disappear. Now, I realize
it is only in the acceptance that allows it
to disappear. It was yoga that taught me
how to balance my weight and my lightness
into one energy, synergy, body and mind.
*
first, body
The scar is blue-black, ink stained
into her skin. He holds her wrist like paper
thin parchment, rubs his thumb over the
kanji as if feeling for a pulse, and says
tell me about this one
she does not name it, she knows he can see
the vertical mark running up her vein
she tells him it was her fifth, and took
the longest to heal; the wound scabbed over
twice before the skin accepted it
as part of her body.
She watches him in the soft light,
standing before her without a shirt, sleeved
in kaleidoscopic colour. She imagines
his sun against her tree, her ankh against
his Krishna, the canvas of their bodies
a landscape of hollows, flesh and bone,
light and dark, blood brain heart
touching his shoulder blade gently, now
she will ask and he will answer
reading the map of each other’s body
this is how they begin.
*
I’m so happy to have my poem “Astronavigation” in Issue Six of Bare Hands Poetry!
Click here to view my poem, and be sure to check out all the lovely poems and photographs in this beautifully crafted collection of work from around the world!
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