[106]

Life Cycles of the Never Was

Falling is the heaviest thing I’ll do today. I promise.
There are eleven steps between here and who I could
have been. I’m holding steady at ten and a half feet

until I am that version of myself — you know the one —
asking my mother not to leave. She does, again and again.
I know the mouse-blonde swirl of hair at the back of her head

better than I know my own face in the late-night bus
window. I’ve gotten on the wrong route again. This one
looks like the two-dollar ferry to the clouds but

lowers its wheels into the tunnels of my veins.
I ride to the undercity. Blue-black rats scurry
like bruises that wash off in the morning’s light.

Every paper that blows is a receipt I once paid.
I owe somebody something but my blood has
dried like paint. Burnt slumber on Route 40.

Blackbirds break the glass into feathered wings,
forgetting what they need to fly.
I flap my arms with fever.
Hollow bones are not enough
to lift us from this earth.

~

CHECKMARKS

Image taken with iPhone on the bus.
Words written at the coffee shop.
Time Taken 6 minutes.
Brain on the quality of mercy, the wages of sin, the probability of true love.

note: All poems for the month of April are memoir poems in the form of lists

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This entry was published on April 29, 2012 at 12:01 pm and is filed under April, Poems, Seattle, Self-Portraits. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

2 thoughts on “[106]

  1. Love the burnt slumber. Nice word play.

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