Day 28: My Hometown

My hometown rocks bombs made of paper and steel
It is equal parts pomegranate and salt water
Rummages through ashes of hopes and history
and tourists lined up for a view

My hometown weeps for steady soil and handshakes
Unbroken promises or steel embedded dreams
It is the dream of antiquated generations and
adolescents and sometimes
even me

My hometown’s rockets speak Russian
and whiz through Diaspora
It is a fingernail in the much larger
ocean of the universe
But it sticks on my lungs like the
labored breath of its shade
The smoke of Jaffa or the
symphony of sirens as the sun sets
on another week

Here
echoes are the only thing we can all agree on
The neutral nature of sound when it drips off tongues

Like the notes spoken when you ask if I’m Jewish
Upon my yes-
“It’s pretty fucked up what’s happening in Israel”
Word
But I am not the Gaza strip
Not the walls of women wailing as their houses are leveled
Not the dismantled boy whose healthcare
is on the other side of a checkpoint
I am more Rachel Corrie than the bulldozer
I am never the bulldozer
Or the soldier who’s only Arabic is “STOP or I’ll shoot”

I do not hold a PhD in conflict resolution

But I do know this

When my eyes roll back for sleep
there is a firework of a Tel Aviv
sunset burned on my resting corneas
Wholeness exists for me only in the
desert of the south
Or the shuk on a bustling Friday
Scents of roasted chick peas and
spiced teabags
Real and comfortable
like home

My hometown taught me how to coexist over
Arak in Ashkelon bars
Wake to shakshuka with sabras in hotel rooms
And worship stars for peace from bomb shelters
my students used as a library
in the Golan

So when I wake up at night
sweaty with nightmare
It is my hometown anthem pumping in my eardrums
Like the soundtrack of my own funeral

My hometown-
I
am
tethered to you
So please, for my sake,
Could you learn how to behave?

Day 21: Cocina

My lover and I are in the cocina with spices
While outside rain patters on
tin roofs and Subaru Outbacks

The soundtrack of our city

Seattle does not speak Spanglish
It is whiter than the tortilla he pulls
from the Mission package
to set on a pizza stone for flaming

These are when our embers were still lit and ignited
Fingers stained and dripping from tobasco and tomatoes
We stuffed our comfortable mouths as we
picnicked under covers
Licking leftovers from our lips
Too careless to turn down the heat

That was a year ago
I’m in a new city now
still learning to temper my taste buds
with avocado and cuervo

Learning how to tap uncapped Cayenne
instead of dousing with flame
Learning how to not down shots
until you’re a pile of Pico in a stranger's arms

Tasting it on my tongue a breath longer
Reverting back to recipes when needed
For these are just stories of the past too

Tasting onions and peppers cooked careful
Not charred until the smoke
heavy and hazed
sticks in your lungs for a whole year

I’ve now found the tablespoon
The glass measured, not guessed

I am not a woman of methodology
But I do believe that patterns can be broken
Recipes altered
And new afternoons birthed from the flame
of a single and subtle spark.

Day 20: Paradise.

In paradise there are no colors
We do not exist in hues or layers
The lion sleeps under the heaping plume of sky
And secrets only run blood deep

We are the savages

The jaws of rabid animals
Eaten and worn by the wanderings of our past
Now resurrected into present

I find you there

In the field built for choosing
You were the restless one
The naïve and tempted
Coaxed by wet palette promises

Perhaps the forbidden fruit was an orange
Burning her tongue the way acid does
A flame lit by saliva
Extinguished by our always
But we are the smokeless

We carry our lanterns late into the night
And tiptoe back into covers before morning
spotlights our sins
Before time makes another smoke cloud
of our skin and curves

Cradle us like saplings
But let us walk with our heads high and heavy
Find a cage
Then let us sever our way out of it
We are safer in enclosures than open spaces
Seduce us with immortality
then push us off bridges
Suffocate us with mud
We will break through the earth with guns blazing

Burning tigers ignited in your palm
Until the lion is extinct.

Day Half Way There: Love, That Red Disease

Love, That Red Diease
Cherry is the color of love when it is new on bed sheets
and pillowcases
It is the line drawn towards the island
Now so far off my latitude my memory convinces me that

only ocean is there
I listen to its waves through old shells and memories lately
Echoes of the past drawn up like curtains
I’m always looking at things from the inside out
Always convincing myself next season will be better for

waves to wash away foot prints and ride
This is the cycle I am tethered to
The predictability of tides
Weathered and thick with sand and glass
Something as seemingly random as the

location of moon, sun
Patterns that keep us sane or unhinged
Depending what fog you’re sifting through
I’m sifting through memories lately
Through ocean floor carcasses and fisherman boots
Through heart attack grips and pigeon holes
I’m sick with equilibrium exposure and unsure shore
Just waiting for proof to convince me, briefly
That I am still at sea.

Day 14: Don't Be Afraid

Love to Gowri K for this prompt "Don't Be Afraid, Finally We Are." Though I thought my final product was kind of lame, I vowed to stay at it with posting. Here goes a raw attempt at politcal poetry. By Sarah L.

Don’t be afraid of the institution that birthed freedom
We are the Obama loving anti-pat Americorps sleeved
Nation of doggy tails and eyelashes.

Finally we are free.

Don’t be afraid of the grip of patriarchs
Squeezing you to believe that you are
a Cameo silhouette
A faceless monogram

Finally we are more than itemized deductions.

Don’t be afraid of being a martyr

Finally we are more than suicide bombs and ash

Don’t be afraid that alternative is a
sly tongue for reformation
That we can rewrite the buzz words that blanket the past
That flags wave high every day, not just the ones
when it’s convenient to block off streets

Finally we are realizing that rainbows stretch as far as Iowa

Don’t be afraid to declare a state of emergency
as your reason for taking a sick day
There is too much soil to dig typewriter hands in to
Too many words that you must put in this world

Finally we are realizing what cannot be puzzled back
together from a desk chair.

Don’t be afraid to speak loudly
Too loudly
Don’t be afraid to write
Don’t be afraid when granted the opportunity
to open your mouth
Like pliers
Like anchors to hinge awareness on

Finally we are all speaking the same language.

Day Whatever: The Pelicans

Done trying to catch up but back on track. Apologies; this ones from the bell jar.

The Pelicans
When the pelicans brought her back from the rain
She still couldn’t find her knees
Lipstick leaked from her mouth like blood
from his temples
and the grave of mascara under her eyes
spelled hunger

At her best she was wife
Grunge rock diva
Demented mother
Their chaos complimented each other

And now there are pelicans
Piecing together this Iris like
Cinderella’s helpers

She is the gray mannequin of cloud
over the Puget Sound
The dull whisper of depression
When your status becomes widow

The pelicans only gift to offer up
was warmth
A sliver of comfort
A strand of milder climate
A fraction of balance
But even they fight to keep themselves
above water sometimes
Even they are beautiful and broken,
wishing they could pull pistol from his
nicotine stained hands
Instead of pools of thread to piece together this
once porcelain ragdoll
This once odd but unbroken
Strange but secure
Drug-filled bones
once tempered with love

They cannot change the methadone mush of her brain
The mashing misfiring that makes her a rock star
They cannot change the recreational habits of a girl
The dripping beats of mascara
Or her divided past

But the pelicans move her flesh back to life
A beautiful reflection to look at in the mirror
As she pulls her wedding gown out of the closet
Rosey cheeks spinning like tiaraed princess
One last time she gives her breath a chance

And collapses into a lake so deep
not even the Pelicans can find her.

Day 8: The Bread of Poverty

The bread of poverty greets me outside of
Whole Foods on my way home
Tries to sell me Street Sense and
I never see anyone take out a dollar
Not even me
Unless I promise my friends I will
And even then
It sits in the corner of my room collecting dust
Like my tax returns.

The bread of poverty is hiding under freeways
Pulsing through this city like it’s part
of the blueprint
We’ve gotten so good at tucking it away
Inside alleys of new condo buildings
In particular parks where the Central Kitchen van stops
To hand out breakfast
Where no one passes walking to work

It creeps from the park to our front stoop
On nights I pull the door to our complex shut behind me
The bread of poverty has a prosthetic hand that holds a
Starbucks cup outside of Starbucks
and doesn’t say a word
It is in the mushed porridge brain of the women
with bullet hole hair in Dupont
And the still-cold DC nights that
shiver me to sleep.

Day 7: This Is Why You're Fat

She eyed my granola yogurt mixture before the grainy neon
digital lights on the microwave read 9:00 AM
Before my coffee
Before boredom slipped into another poem
Penned slyly in Outlook email

She spoke

Told me her daughter was about my age
about my coloring
about my size
Yes, my daughter has a weight problem
Like you

Like you

Like these are the moments we are told to clutch saliva like an heirloom
And choke on spit scorn teeth that want to scream
LADY.. I’m a size 10
8 on good days
Women like you
Are MY weight problem

Women like you sculpt mannequins out of tear stained pillows
and tell yourself their perfection
Warn pretty girls of blueberry stained smiles
Lips tasting every bite like we never cried tears
after pie-filled bellies

Broken
You craft our hands into delicate munchers
Daydreaming about plates next portion
Week’s next menu
Until we could no longer distinguish hunger
From addiction.

Women like you
taught us what emptiness feels like

The gradual and gnawing pain that grows deeper

in our stomachs
Until we convince ourselves this is what
thin is

Fattening ourselves on the moment
Like indulgence was a playground we’ve
been missing since youth.

Day 6: A Haiku for Passover

Do you think about
The slaves, praying to their gods
to never be free?

Day 5: Write About One of Your Heroes..

In My Other Life
In my other life I actually used my journalism degree
And dug births out of burials
Didn’t care who listened
Just happy my editor 
wasn’t always in my own head
Saying Not Enough
Not Ever Enough

In my other life
I crossed oceans and craved content
Cried when I learned children could be traded like
baseball cards
Gave myself a voice through ink
Instead of microphone
And wasn’t always anticipating the reaction

In my other life
I understood
I was born with a heart that beat steel
So I could report and not react
Write and not respond
And somehow feel like I could do more
Could Always Do More

I used to dream about the stars
About the folks at home draping papers over
steaming morning toast
Instead of burning corneas
Like the burning piles of garbage in Kibera

In my other life
I could tolerate this stench

Catching Up: Day 4

As I said, the computer was at Apple over the weekend. Despite the delay, I prevailed:

A District Discography
U be hipsters and half smokes
Caps on sideways
Fruit-infused tea and french fries
Obama’s image on every facade
So we never again lose this history.  

Madame’s Organ is a clever name for a bar
In Adam’s Morgan
Tryst wishes it could be Seattle
And Big Bear nearly nails it but
I would never walk there alone at night

18th splits my hood from the barillo
and looks much better
with the lights on

I know about the 43
The liberation dance parties
The drum circle in Malcolm X

I wonder whether the pile of blankets at my bus stop
Has a person sleeping under them
And think about how many worlds
exist under the District stars

Day 3

Fact: This is not a new poem but fairly new and performed at the Salt Lines show.
Fact: My computer is being loved on by the lovely (and oh so cute) men of the Pentagon City Apple store and will be out of commission over the weekend. I will catch up on the days on Monday at work.

My tax bracket

Breeds transient men

Looking for women to fix their broken resumes

and pauses between plane rides

They cling to us like life rafts

Couch surfing and begging

for a shore to call home

A place to lay baggage that never seems

to properly unpack

A chest to lay aching heads

that promises to be comfortable

And recession proof

I never knew when I moved to this city that

passing freight trains would be the solace I’d crave

on the other half of my hand hold

The draft only felt after they had moved on

to the next town

I downed shots with boys who promised preaching Obama

Would get them a job in the administration

Men who told me only I knew their next destination

Free spirits moving towards opposite hemispheres

Waiting to spit other tongues with

vocab words in back pockets

Books

Maps

Backpacks

That somehow crowded their bare schedules

where I thought I should be

And somehow

I hold on

Always the obedient anchor

The one that never seems to know when to jump ship

Never seems to notice the moorings thrown from their shell

with a clear warning of momentary

I grasp to it

Ask it to graze my sands and secure

To touch something lost and beautiful

Lost in this ocean

Ask for something that will give me some

Better oxygen

He holds me

Asks me to confirm that we are in fact official

l before asking me if I’m okay

Not knowing where he’ll land in a month

a day

Casually mentions the application he sent to Peace Corps

That morning.

And I rethink my theory on free will

There are just too many damn patterns

But perhaps it is me

I am an impossible pupil in the art of being chill

Never content for waiting for phone calls or next steps

I dream murals out of doodles

Have sleepovers way too quickly

And convince myself that this is all just fodder for poetry

Or romance

Or my own twisted mess of a little black book

Just like every

woman

my age

Right?

I just crave

the chaos
The ruthlessness

The kind of dudes that adhere to no ones schedules

And, mostly, the excuses that come at the end

that have nothing to do with me.

30 Days, 30 Poems: Day 2

Thanks to a little prompt from D. Arrindell:

Where I'm From

Where I’m from parents still spin vinyl on dusty record players

Kitchen counters full of organic, non-perfumed hand soap

Cause the suburbs makes everyone allergic

We’re told not to yell up rooms or down stairs

But listen to TV too loudly

While lazy D bangs everything

but the drumset in the basement

There are crispy leaves falling from firecracker trees

where I’m from

Illuminating the old houses and the pitch black cul-de-sac

While kids play recklessly outside houses with

unneeded alarm systems

And you never hear the Prius coming up the street

where I’m from.

Memories are stuffed in shoeboxes and never albums

We smoke prime times on the hood of our Jetta and

Imagine a night without stars

Hand me downs riding open streets with

Case Logic ripping up

The rear view

30 Days, 30 Poems: Starts... Now

Today at around noon, I recieved an ominous reminder from facebook. I had been tagged in a note from my friend Daemond that read "NaWriPoMo Challenge Day 1." For those of who only speak English, that is National Writing Poetry Month. In April, poets challenge themselves to write 30 poems for all 30 days of the month. Sigh. Though my year long writing venture ended back in February, I am going to try hard to keep this one going. 

This first comes from a prompt on Denise Jolly's myspace whilst I was stalking her before the Salt Lines show; I am an ugly...

I am an ugly adolescent 

Sitting jagged legged, high top

On the front stoop of the school

I am the track star's right fibula

Strained and tired

A rocket exploding

Step by step

I am the P Hall lockers

Ignored dents and ridges

Easily decoded and used

Abused

Like mascara 

On the dance captain's blink

A chiseled jaw of not quite grown men

Standing next to bleachers

Waiting to be counted

I am gym teacher's heart palpitations

Before she has to teach sex ed

I am the kid with the boner

The unadulterated nervousness

of the pixie cut girl who reads Nabakov

I am tears streaming down the face of those

broken

Homecoming

floats

I am the lead in the play

The drum major's final pause as arms rest calm 

at his side

I am just waiting to graduate