Family (grief trigger warning)

When I sit

at 2 in the morning

eating a family size

pack of m&ms

it almost feels forbidden:

to eat so much

it almost makes me sick,

to think so fast

my body lines blur,

to be too deep in it,

that messy glory wasteland

with her howling angels,

to stay up so late

I forget what month it is,

to remember

what family feels like,

all 5 of us,

sitting at the picnic table

in the fall

when the wind whips

around you,

listening to NPR

on the radio,

laughing together

as the leaves

fall down

mixing with the

gravel and sunshine.

How could I have known

that even though I loved the snow,

the move to cold Minnesota

was the start

of the end of family.

I cut my hair off

at 3 in the morning

with a rusty pair

of old scissors

that my nana used

to cut crisp and neat with

when I was young,

and now scraping clumps

of hair off my head

with dull pieces of metal

the summer after

my dad died

and I missed him

and my mom

yelped at the sight

when I came down

to breakfast

in the morning.

And later,
I smoked 6 cigarettes

outside in the depths of the dark

having paced round

the hospital room for so long

I was forming a trail

of sunken floor

with my heavy feet,

waiting for my twin flame

to wake up after

his first brain surgery

as the doctors

ripped out as much

of the tumor as

they could

even then knowing

that this was a road

which would end,

in tears,

and for me

my worst fears being right,

doing it all,

running round and round

so as to feel nothing,

sitting at the window,

looking out at the red bird

perched in her tree branches

outside my bedroom

at 11 in the morning

when I held Jordan’s hand

and whispered

over and over:

I love you. I love you.

Can you hear me? I love you,

until he died in my hands

with a sigh.

Untold Horros of the Cancer Choke

There was an echo

within this place

of children

dying and crying

in hospital hallways,

their sobs rang through the rooms

of my head like

a fucking thunder.

Kind calm mamas

wipe her quiet tears

and dads sing her favorite lullabies

as the poor babe

tries to fall back to sleep

with IVs pump

chemicals

all the way up to

her red curls,

which she will also lose

in a weeks time.

I saw nurses

distracting boys

with train toys

while sleep starved parents

get more bad news

and wept in restrooms

so their kids wouldn’t see.

I must confess of doing

this as well

and became friends with the

bathroom stall wall

who wept with me

which I thought was very kind indeed.

I remember Jordan crying out to me in my sleep,

then waking up

in the middle of the night

with a start

and finding a text from him

in the many months after his diagnosis

telling me he was scared

and didn’t feel brave,

so I got up at

5 in the morning

and drove like a witch possessed

to walk and drink coffee with him

in the early morning frosts,

hearing his story,

his processing of death,

thus life too,

and we got sad together,

got angry together,

wept together

at this cancer that

didn’t hear us or care,

and even more so

for needing our father

taken from us before the cancer came calling.

The untold horrors of the

cancer choke

stick in my throat.

I cant,

just cant speak it out

like a crave to,

so I breathe,

just breathe baby,

breathe,

and smile on.

Buried Anthem

Maybe,

just,

these broken down

dusty

words

could hold me a little longer,

for I have been up since

what they call

man’s dawn

and I am so very weary.

Doctors and,

doctors

and,

doctors,

giving us

frowns upon tears

as they walk into bleached bellied

hospital rooms

with puppies and rainbows

painted on the ceiling:

you may not get a chance

to witness tomorrow

so say your goodbyes my dear.

Cancer wasn’t only

taking its time

to sneak in and out

of the brain cells in

my brother,

slow pain,

taking him away from me,

cancer fancied 

killing me too,

as collateral damage,

though strange

no one seemed to see

my soul

drained from me

as I watched untold horror

unfold,

and then laugh at my

silent sobs in the shower.

And friends came,

two by two,

speaking tired odes of

too busy to bother,

scared of their own mortality,

I suppose,

thus rushing away

like the rain to the gutters

after a storm.

So,

my dear kind poem,

I write you out,

blessing your pain

and despair,

clutch me tight

in the everlasting night

until some sort of light

shines within me. 

Holding My Breath

I missed the feeling

of home,

mom’s handmade bread

in the oven,

dad’s voice waltzing

up the stairs

on a Sunday morning,

before he died and left me here

to struggle through alone.

Look,

I am trying my best

to hide the pain,

grinding my teeth

in my sleep,

dripping sweat and

angry sex in dreams,

pacing back and forth

while the carpet

tries to reason with me.

The lamps flutter,

light sizzles,

keeping time

with my sorrows,

I’m in a constant state of

holding my breath,

forcing the sobs

back down my throat

in the living room,

hospice forever knocking

at the hollow haunting door,

stress and insomnia

bursting me head open

while I try to push

my lips

into a smile

that will glide upwards

to my eyelids,

so you might perhaps

believe its real.

My very soul is

breaking into

pieces small enough

they could easily fit,

neatly and without

a swollen struggle,

into the silver jewelry box

you nestle in the

top drawer of your dresser

mixed in with lace and lingerie.

Ghosts in their galaxies,

I ate through the

thin layer of fog

that separated

the dead from the living,

spilling coffee and gasoline

in the process,

bitter stains in the carpet,

silent seizures in the dark,

spines contorting into

suitable suits,

adding one more cog

to the machine.

I saw the suicidal intent

behind your faked apathy stare,

you didn’t fool me,

not even for a second. 

The Mystic Moans

Chains, strains, and

drizzling drains

followed me home

after the earthquake

that hit hard on the 17^th floor

like a faucet gushing heat,

making tea

on a Sunday morning,

while dad was sobbing

into his shirt sleeves.

My body still

aches and shakes

in the wreckage,

ever left behind

with the ghosts still

moaning low,

keeping time

with the moon

and making love to

the mystic mayhem

that shook the rafters,

as I performed my magic

under the stalking eye

of the raven.

You were floating

away from me,

regardless of

my resonating howls,

even my vibrating prayers

betrayed me and

refused to sink into your skull,

melt pains away,

take us back to the days

when I crushed,

with mortar and pestle,

clover, flower petals, and grain,

that I had picked

in the forests of Michigan,

and the swing set erotica sleep

lulling me into deep dream states,

visions that made me scream out

when the sun set

and the dark took over,

settling in my eardrums,

humming venom

and prophecy.