Siren Song

I walked barefoot across the floor,
Suka trailing behind me.

Another song from my playlist hits
in this cazimi.

I look at my sweet girl and ask
if she would like to be sung to.

I could make you smile.

She wags her tail,
and as I raise my head,
I am transported.

Nearly twenty years pass,
and when I look down,
the floor is plastic—

pale and sticky.

I am in a kitchen,
and I can hear someone singing:

Help you dress yourself up fancy.

I look up at him,
holding his gaze.

And bathe you when you get sore.

It’s me.

In love.

I’ll be good, I think I could.

My eyes are transfixed on his—

oceans.

Be all you could want
and more and more.

I was begging.

Be proud when you dazzle the wanderers.

He was smiling
while I was begging.

Glitter your eyes for the town.

I didn’t even notice
that I was drowning.

And I would have gladly drowned.

Tell every last boy that you’re my man.

For that love,
I was suffocating—

willingly devoured
by insects,

so long as I stayed
his.

I could feel the roaches crawling.

The bedbugs.

Till the siren comes calling, calling.

Then,
I am in the kitchen.

It’s driving me evil, evil.

I am sitting across from my father,
my mother beside me.

—I called myself evil?
I wasn’t evi—

Momma was a heartbreaker,
loved you the same way I do,
but I got so much wickedness and sin.

I was a child when my mother told me
about her beauty-pageant days,

about how she had boys lined up
but only wanted my father.

I love you the best way I know how.

She told me recently
how she had always blamed herself
for everything,

how she never believed
she was worth anything,

how she had never loved herself.

When the stars are exploding in your eyes.

I told them, in that kitchen,
that a man had stolen what was mine.

No, it won’t be long until you’re running.

And he wasn’t the first.

No, it won’t be long until you’re running.

I looked into my father’s eyes
and told him
this happened to me
when I was a child.

No, it won’t be long until you’re running.

His eyes filled with tears
as my mother’s face filled with anger.

That is because no man is like your father.

My eyes rose.

My mother’s eyes rose.

’Cause I’m evil.

He has never touched a woman like that.

Never?

Well, my father said, we’re mar—

So it was okay
because you were married.

It was okay for him
because I was family,

because he allowed his friends to,

because who would believe her,

because I was blacked-out drunk,

because I reminded you
of your ex-wife.

’Cause I’m evil.

I’m sorry.

My father swallowed his words.

I’m sorry.
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry.

Oh, babe,
I hear the blond boy tell me
as he gently touches my face.

You’re not evil.

Then, maybe a year later,
he tells me
that anyone in his position
would have dumped me
ages ago.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry.

I break up with him
and tell him:

It’s me.
I had moved on.
I had my reasons.

And for years,
I believed
that it had been me.

For years,
the people who loved me
told me it hadn’t been,

until I told them:

No.

It genuinely was.

He had put up with too much.

I was too much.

And I am
so sorry.

I let you believe
you weren’t worthy of love.

I accepted this—

as proof against myself.

I begged.

I’m sorry I let you believe
those horrible words you heard.

I made excuses for them.

I’m sorry I let you believe
this was the truth

because of the evil
that was done to you,

because of the blame
your mother placed on you,

because of things
beyond your control.

I’m sorry I let you believe it.

I’m sorry I almost took you
from this plane
time and time again,

finding ease in

Ophelia,
Anna,
Lavinia,
Sylvia—

thinking you were unworthy
of joy,

of living,

of breathing,

of simply touching rain.

I’m so sorry.

I didn’t listen to you.

I’m sorry.

fa mnypquasuca.

Fa, mue zemistysuca.

You are stars exploding.

I love you.

Author’s note: This poem interweaves lyrics from “Siren Song” by Bat for Lashes.

I Have

Quick, run.

Find Nyx.

Her ear is infected
again.

She’s running away.
Brothers follow
into my Grand Library.

I imagine
this is how Alexandria
must have looked
after the fall.

Eldest manages to grab her.

Brother, let me—

No. I got this.

Please, let me—

NO.

I watch him
struggle and sway
until she is subdued,

as the room begins to rumble.

I walk toward them.

Poor kitty.

She looks filthy.

Couldn’t fuck you up
if she tried.

Salivating,
tilted little head,
dirtied up and wet.

She turns it
to the right,
slightly up.

The walls begin to crack.

Brother, let me he—

I can do thi—

I know, but let me—

NO.

I stand still,
the hard rocking unsettling me.

I look up.

BROTHER.

Part of the ceiling,
or whatever held above us,
collapses.

I go to grab
the soothed feline.

Brother pulls brother
and they run behind me.

We are so close
to the exit.

The library opens
its stomach.

I grab for something.
Anything.
Something pretending
to hold.

Younger trips.

Oldest falls back with him.

And as he falls,
he clings onto me.

I blame myself
for the trip.

Somehow,
it’s always my fault.

And I don’t know why I—

STAND UP STRAIGHT.

take—

DON’T FALL.

the—

STAY UP.

bla—

They keep shouting.

And I say to myself:

DON’T FALL.
STAY UP.
YOU HAVE TO HOLD THEM.
THIS IS YOURS.
HOLD THEM.
DON’T FALL.

What if you just…

let go?

so dizzy
this feeling

this holiness
of letting go

of the pole.

I open my arms.

Nyx rises.

And Night falls.

Everywhere around me.

The library has collapsed.

And nothing.

I am falling.

My brothers have dissolved
into air,
or something less,
or sublime.

I can’t understand.

I am elated.

Everything—
nothingness—
is so much.

I feel at ease,
like something is sorting
within myself.

I understand
what was destruction

and what was desire.

I don’t understand ho—

I am falling in the dark.

I am alone
in the dark.

How am I breathing?

I begin to forget.

I start to cry.

This feels familiar.

This is what it’s like to die.

As the panic courses through me,
I hear a whisper:

Grieve this.

Eventually,
you will forget
the shape
of what was never yours.

You are alone,

and that is not ill.

You are not empty.

You have.

The heartbeat in my head
slows slightly.

I have.

I word it quietly,
almost as if to keep it.

To remember.

I close my eyes

and feel what it would be
to embrace myself.

Cho iza.

Possible Things

I don’t know if it was so much a fantasy

as it was a dream

that you found your way

out of this forest

that harmed you.

Or at the very least,

that you transformed it

into something livable—

a place where your hands

could grow

something beautiful.

You once made beauty here.

I loved seeing it.

And I’m not saying you do not now,

because you have made yourself

into your own,

even in the bindings,

even in the bramble.

But I see you

bending this wilderness

into something distinctly yours,

a clearing cut open

by your will,

a work that becomes

your finest one.

And once it is done,

the pain rooted there

will no longer call to you,

or to me,

or to anyone

wandering within it.

It will be yours.

A home of bark and breath.

A shelter you have grown.

A place that cultivates

all your abundance.

A place where light reaches

what once only knew shade.

There,

where you finally feel

acceptance and love

in the very ground

where you once believed

there was none.

I dream up lives

for the people I love.

Where they do what they love,

albeit congruent

with some reality

that they could bloom from

if only they would allow themselves—

the same as I dream for myself.

The lives we could grow

if only we allowed

what is tender in us

to root.

It is not wrong

to wish on possible things.

You cannot have everything,

I know.

But you can give yourself

something.

Enough

for spirit to whisper:

I deserved this.

I gave myself

some good in this life.

Enough

to give some good

back to the world.

I lived authentically.

I fed myself truth

like water from the earth,

and I was satisfied.

I want

and care

and dream

and love the people

that I love

to have what they deserve.

But I am old enough

to understand

that I cannot give them

what is not in my hands

to give.

I can only love,

and wait,

and hope to be met

with reciprocity

somewhere in this living world.

Reverie.

Eyes closed.

Here

Is

where

I lay comfortably

in the ephemeral

energy of your arms.

We can’t be here long.

I hold on

as if this were a dream,

malleable

but limited.

So I wrap myself around

you,

look inside your eyes,

and try to find a way

to never lose this.

But alas, I know

in time it will dissipate.

So let’s make the most

of tenderness.

I embrace you.

Our lips turn kindred,

twisting and bending

into a language

neither of us translates.

Our arms entwine,

under and over one another,

as legs wrap,

pulling each other

into a deep sigh,

a deep rhythm

we remember

from a time

we seem to forget.

As my body rises,

your body holds.

With hands I know —

hands that say,

gentle,

that say,

promise I won’t let go.

Strong.

The stretch of vines

and leaves begins to wrap

around our naked bodies,

crawling with small buds

starting to bloom.

You pull me

closer to you,

whispering something small

beneath me.

I move you above me,

our bodies circling

toward something

neither of us names.

We hold each other closer

as the room greens,

as each body remembers

In its own way

—then together—-

how to bloom.

Everything in us

becomes lush,

flourishes,

is gold.

A rose blooms

on your back

where I lovingly dug into you.

Eyes open.

Falling Up

Let the pieces
fall where they may,
they say.

Let it happen,
they said.

As we
fall downward,
the crescent of the moon
flips us all.

I fall up
with you
in the whirlwind,
where all the chaos
seems to be taking everything
into its
unbelievable mouth.

We seem to float here
in something close to solid,
fine
laughing,

holding onto —
or maybe
being held by —
this see-less
line.

Yeah,
maybe this holds
us
just fine.

We breathe
as if air
just found us,

or at least
that’s what
it feels like:

a first real breath
in,
sigh,
and
out.

Is this what
letting go
feels like?

Weightless,
being
in calamity.

It’s all good,
knowing
I got
you.