physics

If she- theoretically-
were to half-step
incrementally
closer like Zeno’s
Paradox, testing
the tension between
two bodies,
which formula would you use to determine
the location (l) at which temptation (t)
overrides acceleration (a) to create
enough force (f) to propel
her across the ground (g) until
the friction coefficient (x) becomes
irrelevant?
I never took
a physics class. Did you?

2013-02-11 23.08.25

despite best intentions

I’ve been confusing the white blossoms
of spring with branches burdened
with snow. I remind myself this
is the season for change, not
hibernation, but still I cringe
when I glimpse your shadow
in her smile and translate the shape of those lips
into transactions made in my absence.

I’ve been mistaking petals
for snowflakes, but believe
me when I say I won’t misplace
the memories of this
singing bowl whose voice
reverberates through my
bones when it rests
in my hands, vibrations reminiscent
of a promise, a (com)promise that clings to
lungs like drops
of condensation.

Andrea Gibson’s The Madness Vase

Andrea Gibson has a particular talent for capturing the essence of mental health and trauma in her poetry that I really appreciate. I also need to test whether I successfully connected my tumblr and wordpress blogs just now, hence the double post in one day. You can find her website here. Otherwise, enjoy this piece of brilliance:

 

THE MADNESS VASE

The nutritionist said I should eat root vegetables.
Said if I could get down thirteen turnips a day
I would be grounded, rooted.
Said my head would not keep flying away
to where the darkness lives.

The psychic told me my heart carries too much weight.
Said for twenty dollars she’d tell me what to do.
I handed her the twenty. She said, “Stop worrying, darling.
You will find a good man soon.”

The first psycho therapist told me to spend
three hours each day sitting in a dark closet
with my eyes closed and ears plugged.
I tried it once but couldn’t stop thinking
about how gay it was to be sitting in the closet.

The yogi told me to stretch everything but the truth.
Said to focus on the out breath. Said everyone finds happiness
when they care more about what they give
than what they get.

The pharmacist said, “Lexapro, Lamicatl, Lithium, Xanax.”

The doctor said an anti-psychotic might help me
forget what the trauma said.

The trauma said, “Don’t write these poems.
Nobody wants to hear you cry
about the grief inside your bones.”

But my bones said, “Tyler Clementi jumped
from the George Washington Bridge
into the Hudson River convinced
he was entirely alone.”

My bones said, “Write the poems.”

Chasing Waves

I know these days
will crash over
me like waves
if I let them, but I am learning
to be strategic. I hop nimbly
over the small waves, playfully avoiding the
spray of water as they reach the shore. I hold
my breath for the longer ones, knowing I will burst
through on the other side, light-headed and giddy
with the joy of sea salt air. I jump headlong
into the scariest, most forceful waves,
because using that power to propel me
deeper is the only way I know how
to not be knocked flat and swallowed
by the undertow.

IMG_0093

This.

(trigger warning for sexual assault content)

She refuses
to remember
the way the two of them made her
spread
her legs-
the living room floor-
to teach me
how to remove
a still-forming fetus,
the proof
of one man’s
indiscretion.

“This will help,”
one said, “you not
have children
out of wedlock.”

This
will help.
This is help.
This is what help looks like
to her.