Cherry Pie Daydreams

January 15, 2019

In this dream, we are baking cherry pies.
We are baking cherry pies in the middle of a sunlit kitchen and leaving them to cool on the windowsill.
I want to say that there is sunshine spilling everywhere.
I want to say that it’s falling out of the gaps between your teeth because it probably is.
How could it not be?
In this dream I put my mouth on your mouth and try to catch all of that happiness with my tongue,
we play soft music that sounds like sighing
and I breathe like a paper bird rustling
against your tongue.
Did I say that there is a meadow in my stomach?
Did I tell you that you were every flower inside of it?
I don’t know, it doesn’t matter. You knew,
how could you not?
In this dream, you are probably licking my fingertips clean,
and we are dripping cherry jam on the counters.
In this dream we are dancing barefoot on a wooden floor,
tangled so far inside of each other like knitting string.
I am kissing your shoulders
and paying special attention to the dusk setting in your hollows.
I am sticking my fingers in your belly button,
and your ears and right there, where you’re all ribs.
In this dream, we are belly full,
I’ll kiss your knees and I’ll stroke your hips,
I’ll comb your hair.
In this dream, we sit side by side and hold hands
and knock our bodies like bowling pins.
In this dream I’ll feed you cherry pie with my fingers,
you’ll kiss me with your mouth wide open,
we’ll taste that sweetness everywhere,
how could we not?

Azra Tabassum

Over Wine

January 13, 2019

He glanced, gave me extra charm
and I took it as my own.
Happily I gulped a star.

I let myself be invented,
modelled on my own reflection
in his eyes. I dance, dance, dance
in the stir of sudden wings.

The chair’s a chair, the wine is wine,
in a wineglass that’s the wineglass
standing there by standing there.
Only I’m imaginary,
make-believe beyond belief,
so fictitious that it hurts.

And I tell him tales about
ants that die of love beneath
a dandelion’s constellation.
I swear a white rose will sing
if you sprinkle it with wine.

I laugh and I tilt my head
cautiously, as if to check
whether the invention works.
I dance, dance inside my stunned
skin, in his arms that create me.

Eve from the rib, Venus from foam,
Minerva from Jupiter’s head –
all three were more real than me.

When he isn’t looking at me,
I try to catch my reflection
on the wall. And I see the nail
where a picture used to be.

Wisława Szymborska

The poet warns us from his prison of appearances – trees and thoughts, stones and emotions, days and nights and twilights are all simply metaphors, mere coloured ribbons – that the breath which informs matter, shaping it and giving it form, is the same breath that corrodes and withers and defeats it. It is a drama without personae, since all are merely reflections, the various disguises of a suicide who talks to himself in a language of mirrors and echoes, and the mind also is nothing more than a reflection of death, of death in love with itself.

Octavio Paz
Labyrinth of Solitude

you are a horse running alone
and he tries to tame you
compares you to an impossible highway
to a burning house
says you are blinding him
that he could never leave you
forget you
want anything but you
you dizzy him, you are unbearable
every woman before or after you
is doused in your name
you fill his mouth
his teeth ache with memory of taste
his body just a long shadow seeking yours
but you are always too intense
frightening in the way you want him
unashamed and sacrificial
he tells you that no man can live up to the one who
lives in your head
and you tried to change didn’t you?
closed your mouth more
tried to be softer
prettier
less volatile, less awake
but even when sleeping you could feel
him travelling away from you in his dreams
so what did you want to do, love
split his head open?
you can’t make homes out of human beings
someone should have already told you that
and if he wants to leave
then let him leave
you are terrifying
and strange and beautiful
something not everyone knows how to love.

Warsan Shire

dreams

January 12, 2019

I dreamed all sorts of funny dreams – dreams with you in them all the time, and terrible ticking clocks, and vampires, and ladies with long arms putting out the light, and intimate black dogs just sitting on us. I love you. I love you more than anybody in the world. I love you for millions and millions of things, clocks and vampires and lovely hair and being dizzy and falling dreams. I want you to be with me; you can teach me to walk in the air and I’ll teach you to make nice noises on the piano without any music; and we shan’t have any money at all and we’ll live on other people’s, which they won’t like a bit. I don’t care. I don’t care for anybody. I only want to tell you all the time and over and over again that I love you.

Dylan Thomas

July 1936 letter to Caitlin Macnamara

 

The Needing

January 6, 2019

i need you
i crave you
it’s the only way i survive
you are my weakness i desire your control

in this space
down on my knees
this is where i belong
this is home my home

only you know how to satisfy
this hunger inside of me
i’m you little blackbird
you love to make me scream

who would have thought
through all this pain
my truth would be exposed
you did…

you knew me better than i knew myself
you saw my confusion
in the way i came crawling back to you

the needing
the bleeding
i’m conditioned
to always want more

but you make me wait…

I am Indigo

Submission

January 6, 2019

Submission is not about authority and it is not obedience; it is all about relationships of love and respect.

Wm. Paul Young
The Shack

This is a word we use to plug
holes with. It’s the right size for those warm
blanks in speech, for those red heart-
shaped vacancies on the page that look nothing
like real hearts. Add lace
and you can sell
it. We insert it also in the one empty
space on the printed form
that comes with no instructions. There are whole
magazines with not much in them
but the word love, you can
rub it all over your body and you
can cook with it too. How do we know
it isn’t what goes on at the cool
debaucheries of slugs under damp
pieces of cardboard? As for the weed-
seedlings nosing their tough snouts up
among the lettuces, they shout it.
Love! Love! sing the soldiers, raising
their glittering knives in salute.

Then there’s the two
of us. This word
is far too short for us, it has only
four letters, too sparse
to fill those deep bare
vacuums between the stars
that press on us with their deafness.
It’s not love we don’t wish
to fall into, but that fear.
this word is not enough but it will
have to do. It’s a single
vowel in this metallic
silence, a mouth that says
O again and again in wonder
and pain, a breath, a finger
grip on a cliffside. You can
hold on or let go.

Margaret Atwood

After she’s gone I cherish all of the signs she was here. I press my face to the pillow and inhale what’s left of her scent. I wear the necklace she gave me, I hold the pendant in my palm while I think of her. My pubic bone aches from grinding against her. I press my fingertips into the small purple bruises on my thighs, she leaves them with her teeth. I run my fingers through my long mess of hair searching for the section she cut, late at night while I sat at her feet and we planned an epic art piece using both of our hair. I love that there’s a short little patch in my mane now, hidden underneath, a sign she has been here with me. I collect these signs like seashells so I can press them to my ear and hear the ocean.

Herdirtylittleheart

Night Walk

December 29, 2018

And the night smells like snow.
Walking home for a moment
you almost believe you could start again.
And an intense love rushes to your heart,
and hope. It’s unendurable, unendurable.

Franz Wright
Night Walk