POETRY COLLECTION:
What I Wore to the Mental Hospital
Is it a pink tulle or zebra stripe satin day? Fashion and mental health. That's my sweet spot. So, clothes tell my story -- from the crimson challis dress my grandma stitched to the roses I embroidered on a muslin peasant blouse. Here are some published poems from this collection in progress which is dedicated to my mom.
This poem first appeared in Xanadu.
American Mother
My M40 bolt-action sniper rifle’s strap
dents my flak jacket in the plunge
where breast meets rib. I prefer it tight
on patrol so the gun’s shaft and rubber
foot hug my back like another spine.
I scale a ravaged factory staircase
and hitch my gear where balustrade
meets rooftop, inch my weapon to a gap
in the gabled stone and lie with it. My chin
nestles the barrel. The rifle’s grip rests
in the tendon hammock strung between
my chest and arm. I mind his every move
and will fell any threat. Even
his dad. Light floods the sight.
I flex my trigger finger
and do not flinch.
American Mother
My M40 bolt-action sniper rifle’s strap
dents my flak jacket in the plunge
where breast meets rib. I prefer it tight
on patrol so the gun’s shaft and rubber
foot hug my back like another spine.
I scale a ravaged factory staircase
and hitch my gear where balustrade
meets rooftop, inch my weapon to a gap
in the gabled stone and lie with it. My chin
nestles the barrel. The rifle’s grip rests
in the tendon hammock strung between
my chest and arm. I mind his every move
and will fell any threat. Even
his dad. Light floods the sight.
I flex my trigger finger
and do not flinch.
So excited to have this poem published in Boudin’s recent issue. Go to Workplace: Wounds and Woes ’24 – The McNeese Review to read other poems in their collection.
The Building Manager
When their Schwinns and Toyotas slink
out the drive, I haunt their burrows.
I thaw her sibilance with a comma splash
and one tangled ampersand. His easel
creaks as I dab fuschia, his sunset now
inferno. I thread golden floss and scatter
a spray of satin stitch and French knots
in her tapestry, her poppies now electric.
My Schlage and skeleton keys chatter.
I whistle through the gap where
an incisor never took root,
no one to notice my dust
of music.
The Building Manager
When their Schwinns and Toyotas slink
out the drive, I haunt their burrows.
I thaw her sibilance with a comma splash
and one tangled ampersand. His easel
creaks as I dab fuschia, his sunset now
inferno. I thread golden floss and scatter
a spray of satin stitch and French knots
in her tapestry, her poppies now electric.
My Schlage and skeleton keys chatter.
I whistle through the gap where
an incisor never took root,
no one to notice my dust
of music.