Breathe
She was twelve.
She always worried
That one day,
she would forget to
breathe--
She didn't understand.
But she'd lie away at night
positive that
if she wasn't
conscious of
her breath, she would die.
She always fell asleep, though,
counting the
stars on her ceilling
or worrying about
tomorrow.
Then she turned twenty.
She knew her
brain kept her breathing,
but she realized
the frailty
in all of that.
Now, it wasn't in her control to breathe.
It was something
she didn't know
Or forgot.
Or once knew.
But left behind.
Huck and Jim
You told me life
wasn't fair,
that some people get shit on and
One must deal
with it.
You told me that rain fell on
everyone; the
good, the bad,
even Clint Eastwood.
But where's my
gun?
Because, damnit, it's been
raining on me
too long
and I'm soaken through
To the very core
of my restless self--
reached the point of saturation,
gone past the
Mason-Dixon line
and drowned in the Mississippi River.
But I don't have
a river-raft,
or know how, or nothing;
And even though I know you care,
you still say: "Life's not fair."
And I keep drifting
with the tide.
Bike Dirt
One moment, my
freedom;
Then, the world
above my ears
and the grinding
of gravel--
It is my bones,
my flesh.
Air becomes a
shadow
as wheels between
my knees
skin my legs
raw:
the burning pain is numbed a moment.
Clumsily I fumble
to stand and
the tears
start
to
fall.
Maman at the
door, then strong hands hold me.
My crimson-stained
arms tremble,
but I am safe.