I can’t tell you
why I glared at you
that time in the midst
of the crowd. I
hope to take that secret
to my grave.
all I can say
is that your crime
was not at all
the one you thought it was,
and in fact was no crime
at all. and yet
it made me
truly furious.
chalk it up to the mystery
of the human heart,
file it under women,
inexplicable behavior
thereof, just don’t
ask me to explicate
my pitiful, pointless rage.
it’s all I have left.
{cw: suicide}
telling your companion
to leave space for me
on the bench was
(in theory) a nice gesture.
telling her to be sure
to leave extra room
because I am big
was unnecessary,
and furthermore
quite rude, dude.
a couple of things
to consider: first,
had you not mentioned
my sex, there would have been
no need to mention
my size. I am not bigger
than your average man.
secondly, since you said it
in front of my boyfriend,
you must have known
this would get back to me
by the end of the night.
so your later attempt to kiss
my ass – the very one
the size of which you seemingly
felt compelled to mock –
was an ill-fated and
ill-conceived maneuver.
I innocently accepted
your flattery at the time,
but upon learning
of your treachery, am
now twice as mad.
thirdly, if you think
that I am not already
very much aware
of how much space I
occupy, you’ve got
another think coming.
I ride the subway
and also exist as a
woman on this planet.
it was unkind and unnecessary
to remind me
that I should be smaller
to be acceptable
to you and yours.
for all your preaching
about social justice, perhaps
you need to practice
a little more.
my demons walk
over my body. purring
monsters press themselves
against my sides. my legs ache
from running away
from my problems. I want
to eat everything
in the house, write
a hundred poems and smoke
fifty-nine cigarettes: damn
the consequences, curse
the day, I’ll sink deeper
into my dreaming life.
behind my closed
eyelids, a black triangle sweeps
in a circular path
like a doppler radar
display. it’s showing me
how far I am
from sleep. is there nothing
that can reconcile me
to living like
a normal human?
what about all the poems
I haven’t written?
every breath
of my eyelids is a poem, every
second of every day
is a poem, every movement,
every sigh, every tear
is a tiny poem
left to cry itself
to sleep.
all these unborn poems
hum inside my bones
like bees, bubble
in my throat like a
scream, shine
from my hair like
the moon silvery pale,
I am eldritch with them,
pregnant
with so many
ghosts. my tiny
little poems, I cradle you
in my blood
as I embrace
the void.
I didn’t realize
that poem I posted
from 2015 was
incomplete. I didn’t mean
to leave the reader hanging, when
a simple period
would have sufficed.
to be honest I skimmed it
and thought it seemed
good enough. I wondered why
I didn’t post it last year
or the year before. now
it’s out there, seemingly
unfinished. I would edit
but I’d have to find it.
maybe sometimes
it’s okay to leave
in the middle
my fur is red
as a flame, my claws
can cut you to ribbons
without even trying – let alone
my razor-sharp teeth.
my wild, wide green eyes
fascinate my prey
for the few short moments
before its death.
the unearthly sound
of my howl terrifies
anyone and anything
in hearing distance.
and yet, if I love you,
if you are found worthy,
I’ll sit by your side
tame as a housecat
and purr. pet my
silky fur, feel
my deep rumbling growl
and know that
I can defend you
better than several
armed humans can.
surely you’ll want
to stay in my
good graces.
his whole life, he struggled.
a misfit, a half-breed, neither
fish nor fowl, and barely
tolerated by either.
he had too much magic
in his blood
to be trusted by peasants,
and too much dirt
under his nails
for the highborn.
he toed a fine line
with little respect, until
his leader died and only then
could he set his own plans
in motion. even then
his own secret arrogance
soon brought him low
again. and now he waits,
silent, enchanted
by his own consent.
he has hundreds of years
to think about his many
mistakes. he watches
as the seasons pass,
and the stars whirl
above his head. kingdoms rise
and fall while he keeps
his lonely vigil, waiting
to be freed.
poor, foolish,
misunderstood Luap. what a
faithless, oathbreaking sucker.
still, he wrote the histories,
and now no one even knows
his real name.
for eighty years
they have been putting it on:
showing their bulls
and presumably cleaning up
their shit. this year
the grandsons – and maybe -daughters –
of the farmers who showed
their bulls at the very first
bull show will compete,
probably showing
the great great great grandchildren
of the bulls that
won the first one.
Angus, Charolais, Gelbvieh,
Simmental, and Hereford are
some of the breeds they will
be selling. such exotic names
for a most domestic animal.
afterwards the buyers and sellers
will have a dinner at the
Williams Lake Curling Club.
I wonder if any feuds occur
over a hotly disputed prize-winning animal
lost in a bidding war,
or if everyone is
the best of friends.
this all sounds very exciting,
if one is even remotely interested
in bulls. I guess they need
something to do up there
in the middle of nowhere,
British Columbia. we can’t all
be lucky enough to live
the open mic life
here in NYC.
when I said “fuck you!”
earlier today, and accused you
of being five days early,
I was wrong. it turned out
you are right on time.
it was the computer
that made a mistake,
in the form of my
tracking website, which
consistently overestimates
your arrival by three to five
days, and my memory
of the incorrect predicted date
that led to this incorrect
assumption of your error.
I’m sorry. next time I’ll try
to remember that you’re usually
quite prompt, and reserve
judgement until I’ve
done the math.
R. Brookes McKenzie 