when I was in my mid-30s, a man –
one with a degree
in how my lady bits
worked – explained to me
how my body
was only meant to make
so many homes
for the babies
that never arrived.
Category: 2016
blood secrets
every woman – and girl
over the age of thirteen – knows
how to get bloodstains
out. men ought to think
twice before antagonizing
and harassing
us.
women, know this:
we are far tougher
than we’ve been taught
to believe.
auto fill
why when I type “my”
on my phone
is the next word
that is suggested
“husband”?
I have none and never
will.
on the other hand,
I know exactly why
when I
type “I’m”, the first word
suggested is always
“sorry”.
punching bag
I’m sorry
about last night. my
soul was eating itself
alive, my mind
turning inside out
like a coat,
fears and rage, guilt and sadness
chasing their tails
in circles and
my art needed fuel – I had
to get some feelings out,
it felt like dying –
so I rifled through my
pockets, found an old wound,
a small frustration
hidden deep
inside my heart,
left over from those
olden times when I
carried a sad torch
that was never needed
or wanted, and I
used the feelings, coupled
with the memory, to light
a bitter bonfire
to burn off the excess
pain.
the things
that weigh upon me
the most are the ones
I fear so much
I cannot write a word. so
when a safer outlet
presented itself,
I took it. I see now how
it was a coward’s move.
next time I’ll try harder
to find a way to let
the real demons out.
or at least
find a better target.
behind the curtain
can’t you ever just
for once fucking
come out and say
what you mean and
mean what you say?
do you even have a heart
under all those cries
of wolf, wolf, looking
for your Little Red
Riding Hood? or does a
clockwork ticker beat
itself to death inside
your Tik-Tok chest?
fee, fie, foe, fun. I
smell the blood
of a charlatan.
strange currency
I see you stole my dream
for your art. okay. like
the Doritos commercial says,
I can always make more.
just last night I drove
your car to a strange new
Thursday open mic, which
was either the 29th instance
or occurred on the 29th day
of the month, I
wasn’t sure which.
spume
you feel spurned
by the ocean, by the spume
of waves crashing down
all sea-glass-colored, and
the dangling hands
of seaweed in the pale green
light of the oncoming
breaker hanging open
with no one
to grasp them.
you feel rejected
by the moon and
by the stars, alone
out there
on the beach.
not. tonight
I didn’t expect
to go home alone
tonight, that’s all.
it’s fine, I don’t mind,
it’s all good. I’m waiting
for the train, drunk
and wearing my
jukebox dress. I
have to pee. I
just missed
the train. I left
my book at home
because I didn’t expect
to go home alone
tonight.
that bird
that bird, the lone little guy
who came to visit me
in my aerie, and
who ate some of my crumbs?
I thought he might
have been a grackle – a
delicious word for a
delicious-looking bird,
at least to my salivating cats – but
further investigation
(i.e. Googling)
tells me he was not.
he was merely
a common blackbird. they’re
not very big – I can see
how it could take
four and twenty of them
to make a decent pie.
still, he was very cute
and brave, and it’s not
his fault he doesn’t have
a better name.
metaphors
my love is a candle-flame,
not a bonfire. it
won’t blaze up and burn us
both to ashes,
but slowly, steadily go
down its little wick
to keep us company
in the dark
until the wax is gone.
then hopefully
I’ll keep it safe
in a new candle
we’ve built
to receive it.
R. Brookes McKenzie 