Bit of Bella

That boy has too much pain
Too early.
She saw something
Beautiful
In him.

Fuck Godot; can’t wait forever.
Eating dandelions and radishes
From the hot nestled nest of your purse,
Tonguing a place that’s sore.

You might forget about the sun, then, and
Precious, worthless diamonds:
Aurora’s chilled, dropped tiara gems. Or
4 pm, drowsed windowsills,
Just enough bright to warm one leg.

Remember: take your coffee silky brown,
Refigure your optimistic post-its.
At best: this day will remake everything.
Anyway, the sun is out.

Don’t bend your neck, which is straight and strong.
They can all see your amethyst heart beating
Underneath those bird-like ribs,
Hollowed-out: it beats.
The sun, the sun…

This city recognizes: your gait.
Curls limestone thumb, careful,
Around your morning transit.

Erosional rose city fits itself,
Quiet, beneath your hair,
Fog-eases down your shoulders.

Watch you count the high-rise windows,
Mimic quiet geese cries,
Dream of a small, sad smile.

Tremble, tease the men who wander past.
An eyebrow, a lock of bright hair:
Make ‘em stop –

Their hurry. Cities feel; no caress
Travels down your neck the same,
But don’t mistake: they know you.

Quiet delicacy, gentle palms.
They feel your heelbone on their sidewalk,
Every city is different, like a flower or a date.

When you take off, flustered, hurried,
They add your name, careful,
To the list of Might-Have-Beens.

Another city, now, has got you.
But taking the memory out, late at night,
They think, they dream; a small, sad smile.

Feel the loss of you and
The Might-Have-Beens, now
Beating heels, a different pavement.

It is my birthday.
I hate it.

If life was a Myspace quiz, it would be:
Name: I wish my mother spelled it different; it tries too hard.
Age: 24
Which is halfway to 48, twice 12, a fourth more than 18.
A quarter of 96, which is so near my grandma,
Who sits up at night with a gun
On the no-squeak chair she bought,
Listening to beatings and knocking against her windowpanes.
Someday soon she will blow a hole through her wood paneling
Aiming at the noises.

Her shoulders feel so small now
When I hold her.
Too small to support the gun.
Too small to bear the worries.
She sees hallucinations; they’re not real.

It doesn’t matter.
Nothing gold can stay.

Favorite author: You can stack the books to the ceiling;
that doesn’t mean you’ve read them.
So many words my lips haven’t kissed or moaned or
Stretched themselves around.
I can read forever;
Doesn’t mean I understand.

I hate my birthday.

Favorite food: deep clean silence.
It’s only awkward if you name it that.
I’m looking for you.
But I feel too weak to hold up all these broken people.
Once they were safe on my shoulders
But my collarbones are so thin, my back so bent;
Nothing gold can stay.
I’m 24 and I can’t hold up all the broken people.

People who aren’t poor forget all the little things –
It’s the little things that make being poor so nasty.
They imagine themselves, shining and well fed, in a dingy flat in Europe.
But it’s broken tiles, stained carpet, flat hair, soft teeth.
Switching to a cheaper brand of cigarettes.
Even though they taste like shit.
You can get more but it won’t taste good.
Tell me about it.

I’m 24. I feel love. It’s a pain
More exquisite than pleasure.
I can bathe my limbs in it, my shoulders,
The scarred small of my back.
I need to feel a hand in mine.
I need to blind myself.
What I’ve seen is too painful, already,
And I’m only 24.

Nothing gold can stay.
Nothing gold can stay.

And the first thirty-three minutes of
Sebastian, before he broke, thin shoulders hunched,
Mouth a bitter demarcation near his elegant gentle chin.
Nervous fingers, slender shoulders bared.
I’ll do anything for a moment of pure –
Fingers against palms
Eyelashes against cheekbones
Lips softly parting
– Love in the coldest part of winter.

I want to pick them all up, the broken ones, and put them back together.
But some of the pieces are missing. And some don’t seem to fit.
You can mash them until your fingers ache.
Some don’t seem to fit.
How did they get here, anyway?
Will they ever get home?

You are in the trees, I know, looking up at me.
I touch myself, to prove that I am here.
Watch me, please, smoke this cigarette.
I’ll ash in this cup, I’ll touch myself.
Watch my shoulders in the moonlight.
Trace my silhouette with your lips.

I’m sorry I didn’t take your call.
I’m sorry your hands tremble.
I’m sorry I can’t hold you.
I’m starting to think you’ll never find me.
I’m here.
Keep looking, I’m here, I’ll light your way
Don’t throw yourself away, yet, down
To the rocks, the dregs.
Or maybe some god will turn us to birds
A great and terrible god, we may roost.
Or raise a family of little scarlet criers.
Don’t give up, yet, those hungry pink mouths.
Their little heavy-diaper waddles.

Pepsi or coke: I tend to make piles of things.
This is what I have to do; This is what I’m taking.
That is what reminds me of you and you;
This proof of those hearts breaking.
These are the notes you wrote in middle school,
These are all the rules.
Those are the things we should have left behind.
These are the things we took and lost.

I’m 24 because I’m hungry for it.
Famished. Please don’t close your eyes.
Please look at me, please don’t repeat the words I said
As if you heard them. Or noticed my eyes running down my cheeks.

Sign: Capricorn, the goat, the hungry one.
Astrology doesn’t matter.
It’s all so accurate, it doesn’t seem to matter.
I want shots in the dark. I want pure true love.
I want missed connections and missed glances.
Mystery, romance, myth, please.
I don’t want a normal boy.
I want a mythical one.
I’m just a normal boy.

Age: 24. Didn’t they ask this already?
Yes. I’m 24. I know, it seems like yesterday.
They get so big and their eyes are awfully
Full of intelligence. I thought once that I could
Hold them all up. I wanted to.

Please don’t pretend that it’s all alright.
Nothing gold can stay.
I hate my birthday.

Peanut butter or jelly: here’s the irony:
I’m not even depressed. I feel stronger and better
Than I did last year. I feel primed. I’ve got my good shoes on.
I’ll make them swoon this time.
But I don’t ever want to break a heart again.
There are little broken pieces all over
I can’t put them together;
my fingers hurt; the pieces hurt.
And some don’t seem to fit.

grandma’s worries slouch in her lap,

dangle like lace from her knees.

she knows the terrible

intricacies by heart

could trace them in the dark.

if she ever stayed up late enough.

grandma’s old hands:

crooked. veins:

fragile dams

to keep the blood in. blue streaks in marble.

they’ve never been any different.

she was old when I was young.

she will
kill any
ants.

even if
they’re
far off,

minding
their
business

on a
weed.

her mouth trembles when she says

“i’m glad you’ve come” and

“you don’t know how glad i am you’ve come.”

Pulls her head to my shoulder.

She was old when I was young.

grandma speaks very calmly about death

and about her bowl movements.

(moratorium expelletorium).

i make a face: who wants to know?

Sometimes (ashamed) i catch myself

Picking out what I want when

she dies. that’s shameful, i know it.

when she’s gone, i’ll cry.

the critters around her backyard will feel it too.

they will caper, I bet.

she often sits at dusk with a

rifle.

picks
them
off

near cunningly placed bones and rinds of fruit.

She has killed four opossums

two foxes three skunks a wild cat

an armadillo that was full of babies, so far.

when she’s gone i’ll feel it.

Kick Brutus and Judus to the curb

Before they can break your heart.

That’s the funny thing:

it hurts even if you don’t care about him, really.

And you can cook him lobsters, steam them

Till they’re red and screaming

He’ll eat the flesh from your tail.

I guess we feel pain so that we may grow.

It hurts, sure, just like when you do too

Many sit-ups and feel pretty sick.

It hurts, sure, but our muscles are growing.

P.S. Yesterday I was wearing the perfect outfit. It was perfectly suited to the temperature and I had just enough pockets for all the things I wanted to carry.