I did the April Challenge again this year, and had so much fun. I'm not going to post all of them, because there are just so many. But I wanted to post a few of the ones that I'll be working on throughout the year in the workshop.
April 4
Well
I watch the pillow as it curves to contour the shape of your head.
You breathe: shallow, shallow, deep. Shadows spill onto your cheeks,
seep through your pores and meld with your face, your fluid
face. I peer into the well of you; stark, black
nothing assaults my eyes. If I drop my offering, lean close
to the edge, and listen for the accepting 'plink',
you will surely swallow my change
with a silent tongue to voice your hunger, always the need
for more than I can spare. You have stripped me naked—
bare of myself—and when I search for my voice, I find yours boring
into my ears, and when I dig into my flesh I unearth your bones
buried there, where my intimates once were. You have absorbed me
the way you consume the darkness, the way you suck
in everything alive, everything not alive. If only
I could siphon myself out while you sleep.
But you never really do.
April 6
Phantom Pain
this pain is not a pain you flinch at it is a pain you beg
for like you pray for an oasis when the impending night
is a winged scavenger that circles above you waiting
for the desert floor to clutch your belly when you see it
there you throw yourself at it let it soak
into your crevices float in it and gulp it greedily until
your thirst is sated but when you choke and cough out sand
you understand that it was a mirage all along and that he
was already swooped off by the vultures and they left
you because you were just a rack of bones strung together hollow
and rattling you have been dead for such a long time
April 15
Explosion
After the blast you're stuck, half
under the rubble, numb and deaf.
You try to cry for help, mouth's too dry.
No one's around anyway: your eyes
flush out the dust, and you notice
you're buried beneath chunks of your own
walls, the ones you built brick by brick to block
them all out. Your right hand's pinned
by your side, still fisted on a list
of those who wronged you, left hand over
there on the floor, fused to the detonator.
Your face stares up at you blankly
from a charred photo. A nasty little bird
perches on top of your nose,
and sings a song. You can't hear it
over the ringing in your ears,
but you know the words to this one:
whadyoudo, whadyoudo, whadyoudo?
April 20
Bleached
When I answered the phone and spilled the whole
Clorox bottle onto the load of clothes, the fumes caught the oh
in my throat and choked it off before the hello? hello? I thought
this didn't happenthisisnot
happening, and I saw you hunched over
the sink, chasing a shadow
from your chin. The blade nicked your skin and red drops hit
cotton. You crumpled the soiled shirt into the hamper. And then
I was pouring soap. The phone rang. Your arm thrust up
from the bowl, reaching, reaching. The agitator
rolled. Tried to lift you out, but the fumes, my eyes,
hands slick. Lost my grip. And you
screamed, I screamed and—whump—shut the lid. I couldn't watch
the water bleed.
When the spincycle stopped, I retrieved your shirt: white
but full of holes, just like your lies.
This next one is for my grandmother who passed away on New Years Day this year.
Alice
Today, for the first time, I held your hand.
I'd wanted to do so many times when I was young,
but the pine boughs in your back yard seemed easier
to reach. To me, you were one of the mystery
novels that lined the wall, and I searched behind the ivory
of your smile for the tombs of men who'd drowned
under the silver crest of your waves. Still, in your voice,
I'd hoped to occasionally hear the warmth of cookies
that you never baked, or to see, in your eyes, the flight
of a hummingbird. I remember the ceramic castle
that sat in your curio cabinet, a magnificent kingdom
overthrown by armies of dust. Perhaps I thought
you were the queen, and I was an unworthy peasant.
But today, for the first time, I held your hand.
Your smile was grateful when I brushed
your gray hair, and your few words spoke more
than a library of novels. Then your eyes began to explain.
I've known your name since I could speak, but
I've only just begun to understand you. Why
are you leaving, Alice? Alice, please don't go yet.
Alice Mae Harder
2/24/1922 - 1/1/2008
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