Spring Cleaning

 mud

 on my summer dress

 washed a thousand times

 the brown spot, which is supposed to be

 white and pure like the rose I gave my mother

 the tile floors are red and I am an off-white egg

 my yolk drips onto your head

 your laugh fills the walls

 we are in a cave

 somewhere

 home

 white

 is forgiveness,

 is hope, is surrender,

 my mother took the petals
and turned them red just like her lips

how remembering that always was

moment of being sucked dry
i scrubbed for days

i am white
wearing

mud

Washing Up

my hands    are dirty

I’ve been

digging

hit bone, hit earth,

hit rock, hit bone
You are gone
deep in Earth’s

core,

away from the

center

of my heart
You are dead
my hands

are dirty

I’ve been

cleaning

up your

blood

from the rug
Red finger tips

like my mother’s

 

lipstick
I thought I was her

then there was

you

consuming me

like a

fresh

catch
I bit the bait

but never bled

Indigo Sun

The sun burns my skin. It is hot, strong, and smells of      fire. I cook, I bake, I let the      rays from the sky shoot into my     pores. I sweat. I burn, I tan. I am     bronze, I am olive, the color of my grandmother, the color of my     ancestors.

I look down at my     blue veins, the same ones which run along my     mother’s thin hands. The blood inside pumps, thick with vengeance, thick with the     sadness that I try to escape from. I fail. It lies     deep in my connective tissue. Indigo lines connect to my heart, connect me to     her.

The sky is aquamarine, with cotton clouds that float     effortlessly. I try to look up, but the sun blinds my eyes. As a     kid, I tried to look at the sun for as long as I could     stand. I was amazed by the fire, the light, the     burn. The heat warmed my     chilled bones.

Somewhere,     Lil is looking up at the same     sky and looking down at these same     veins.

I was Seven When She Loved Me

My mother sits outside with our neighbor, drinking red wine, mingling with the starry sky. I run, barefoot and fast, into the night. She is at ease while we live in Sayreville. I’m not sure if it’s the wine or the sound of the cicadas. In the summer, my mother is free. As am I, being a child, playing with the earth. 

Years later, we become shackled. Far apart, but stuck together with tree sap. 

Red Goo

Power

lies within       me

    Somewhere,

red light bulbs burn hot

 like

tomato sauce that bubbles

on stove

 like

my mother’s fiery eyes

I clean the kitchen every night

but it

                                              stays

dirty

with crumbs in between cracks of floor

sticking to

bottoms

of feet

               why bother

                                                  when

                                                             it doesn’t

                                                  matter

when it just is never clean

Consistency is key

I am Power

   burning through blue veins

       burning through the stove

 when the        grill pan                     smokes

I am Ice

  like my mother’s stare

     like my feet on the tile

  like snow

I

   melt

    into

red

       goo

Open Wounds

In an Action Writing Workshop, the first time Annie Lanzillotto had me write spiral-style, I didn’t know what to expect. I didn’t really understand what it meant to start from the outside of a scene, and make my way in, or vice versa. I just thought and ran with it. This is what I produced on that magical yellow swirl:

Julie holds my hand
“Pain is beauty,” the man says
The chair is cold
11 years old
“Pick which studs you like.”
White

Cotton ball beneath my ear
burning, yearning
redness
Prick
through my flesh

Where’s my mother?
She wouldn’t take me
It
hurts
The second needle
plunges
into
my
heart

Dancing

I don’t know
if my mother held me
when I cried.
I may have been left in my room
with the moonlight
to muffle my sobs,
while she hummed a tune
and swept the floor,
hushing the voices…
Hug her.

            Her skinny legs
            would shuffle across the floor
            when I was 13,
            and she danced to Barry white
         My first, my last, my everything…
            My mother didn’t laugh much
            but this was so fun.

            I watched from down the hall,
            her dark brown perm
            flipping with every sway.
            She snapped her long fingers
            to the beat.
            I wished she was singing to me.
            I wanted to be
            her first, her last, her everything.

I don’t know why
I’d rather not be held
when I cry.
But my mother does.
I sit alone in my room
and watch my reflection
crumble in the mirror.
I talk to myself
to hush the voices…
Call her.