The Bow

Trouble my heart

Grind the nape of my neck under grisly grace nails

Remove my footing

Falter my assurance and rattle me with doubt

Defeat me.

Scourge these arid planes where remorse

Left, holding hands with pure youth.

This desert bleeds vile fumes

Shatter the swindled glass of a thief

With your hammer blow these weak hips

Pronounce obeisance; downturned palms, covered knees

Fortify; drive my face in to the earth.

Discovery Unmatched

Solid casing protects pages soft

You sit unopened under Keats Donne and Frost

Shielding letter jungles uncharted

Tattered spine, grey binding

Granite skin for decades fading
Cradle the unspoken map

I discover you

Implore your fragile tale
Your spine moans with barren ache

Naked words inhale, to clear your shrouded lungs

Breathing shrill air, melt and

Drench dried cracked pages
With the moist flood of our soundless exchange

I read you

Become the verdant soil of your forest
Gripped, rooted, trailed, burrowed, fertile
The ground beneath a silent wood
Whose touch is like poetry

Speak Well

What I have seen mirrors your vision

Yellow digs deeper holes in these dark caves

What I have smelt trails behind your scent perception

Wine perfume sends this pulse to rage

What I have touched shadows your handled path

Balmy skin traces over this arctic core

What I have tasted imitates your palate last

Ginger pop travels backward to illness before

What I have heard contradicts your tall tale

Horrid lips deceive; fail the naivety of these ears

Third Grade

I sat in the front row of Mrs. Olsen’s third grade class. The chalk board spanned the length of my view, claustrophobically outlined by the blue rim of my glasses. I became familiar with the homework section on the right in contrast with the calendar on the far left. My seat was close but not uncomfortable.
It was the week we were presenting our favorite hobbies to the class. Each day five students were scheduled to stand in front of my desk and explain their favorite pass time. When Daniel presented his origami, he walked around the class demonstrating how to create a small paper swan. His hands smelled like urine up close. I watched as Alexandra showed us how to make Asian dumplings. I was distracted by the musty smell and decided not to try them. When my turn came, I set my scrap book up on the chalk ledge with my favorite pages exposed to the class. It was from the trip with mom’s extended family down to Virginia Beach. I loved how the yellow and blue paper complimented the shots of us on the beach. My rough presentation of how to put together a scrap book included stylized scissors, shape cutters, stickers, paper colors and a list of where these items could be purchased. As I spoke, students passed around pictures that I intended to insert into my book later.
When my presentation was over, the day was similarly at an end. Mrs. Olsen reminded us to keep up with the chapters in Bud Not Buddy. We were sent off with the subtle clang of a bell, and all arose to retrieve our book bags off their respective hooks. A sudden bump in the shoulder caused me to look quickly to my left, only to see Isaac walking quickly past. His backwards sneer proved he meant to be pushy. Looking down passively, I kept towards the hook with my name on it. In my peripheral vision I saw Isaac and his friend, Chinua whispering to each other. They seemed to be mocking someone, the huge grins and wide eyes gave that away. As I picked up my backpack, Chinua turned towards me. Laughing he said,
“I bet you like it with the lights off, don’t you!” Turning to Isaac, both boys burst out in animated spurts of “Ha, Ha’s”. My face immediately went red with the attention of two laughing class mates, my eyes shot to my shoes.
I hardly knew anything about the subject, but my mind was opened to the embarrassment. My virtue was stung by their jibing comments and spurred me towards angry tears. I ran to the bathroom, shut the stall door and held my wet face in my hands. My chest of innocence was pilfered that day.

A Terrible Gift

Sufficient I have become

Sufficient on my own
Adore at your own risk
Liberated I have worked hard
Liberated to none
Attach yourself with caution
Apathetic I am now numb
Apathetic to emotion
Your tears move me to nausea

I wear the skin of hell
Flip the tongue of a theft
A muted thud fuels my veins
Choice beating heard by your trampled bouquet

Financial Planning

The green leaf 

Withers the hands that hold

Its papery naivety

Befits leather pouches

Couched between success and poverty

Inflicting self reproach.

Tasteless, motionless, thin.

Controlling each sense

            The garment of greed dresses all.

Creating senseless old men borne from

Cent driven children

To swim in a naked ache.

The language of distraction

Little do they know, I have all the information.
My thoughts are all disheveled. I am a walking dictionary.
I can't understand what you're saying when I am hungry.
I am here. Now.
My phone just vibrated.
My hands are freezing.
I don't know where to start.
Just focus, look at her lips, and comprehend what she is saying.
"Hello, How are you?" She won't answer with her real feelings.
I shouldn't have eaten that.
"My name is Brianna" I won't remember your name.
I need to take a nap.
What is going on tonight?
I want to put socks on.
That woman looks like she may cry.
I could really go for some tea.
Her outfit is cute. I wonder if those are real glasses.

Your touch on my skin

It lives in my brain

The harsh tips of your fingers

Abrasively soothing on my neck.

Ten strokes at once

Play a melody that tingles down my breasts

I am over and beyond these yellow walls

My mind is focused on drinking deep

I am present in every sense.