Today is the day the chapbook started coming together. I've been going back and looking at the collection of work I've been accumulating forever, and it's been an interesting day of revisiting those pieces. I also started looking back at poems that were addressed to specific people, namely the men in my life, and I've been replacing the second person p.o.v. with the third. For some reason it just feels more right to have everything written from only my perspective--after all, this is a collection of my relationship to my own experiences of events. Hence the title of the chapbook:
Oh it feels good to have a title!
Here is one of the poems I revisited today. It's on the sadder side, but hey, that's poetry for ya.
A Keener Sting
It felt like that before—a machine,
whirring and foreign and cold,
cinder blocks and scaffolding.
Then, afterwards—after the cement cracked
and the stones came loose--
there was newness, the whisper
of a first touch.
Remember when the light met his hands,
so his fingertips were as iridescent blotches
on water at sunset. At every contact
our skin illuminated purple and gold.
Remember when we watched rain move
across the horizon like a smudge of graphite
on fresh canvas, deep vibrations of electricity
pulsed through the soles of our feet--
we breathed in time to
the beating of the earth together.
I don’t know if I have traveled far enough
to pull every tear from somewhere deep
within my throat, my lungs.
I don’t know whether I have separated myself
from the broken glass—that time I cut my heel
on a shard of cobalt blue. The blood
dripped onto the remaining splinters
scattered on the carpet.
If I were different, if I could feel
anything other than pinpricks
and dull aches, a hand on my cheek,
whether it was comforting or confining,
would feel like more than just static.