poems
first world achilles
dipping a crumbling biscotti into my coffee, i ask:
is this how she felt?
when Thetis, dangling her infant son
by the heel
into the river Styx,
trembling her first and second
fingers together - -
pinching, pleading
for her smallest muscles
to do the heaviest lifting - -
hoping
that every part of her child
would absorb the warmth,
would always be savored.
at the gripping point,
we never really had any control over any of this,
did we?
together - -
we crumble
too
(eda bee)
pride
one hell of a beast
it looks like intestines
and a heart
and a brain
a face with two eyes
a nose, hair, a mouth.
a mouth with a reflex
that says "it's not my fault"
when the mud that left
footprints on the carpet
lives still between my toes - -
gangrene always grows
in the coldest places
and whenever its heart beats
ice chips off and falls
melts and forms a pool
and my eyes
add to the surface
tension
(eda bee)
let us break
“oh, i’m just on this
new diet, just, like,
fivehundredcaloriesaday,
no potatoes, no corn,
no sugar, no fruit,
no bread, no big deal,
just iceberg lettuce and ice
cubes - - i
just want to look how i did
in high school!”
so
would you really want to go back?
she applies cotton candy
balm and smacks her lips,
says
“i guess not, i was just
different then - - skipping
class, running all over, but - -”
what?
“i just want to feel happy
like that again”
with her face to the rising sun,
she stares at my plate,
an invocation.
i break bread,
we drink wine.
all and none
the Wiser, we
eat
(eda bee)
t(sun)dere
you caught my eye, but
how couldn’t you? oh please,
bright ball of fire
that dictates all life
shining in my vision like
an annoying debutante
flashing her chest and
wishing for world peace onstage
can’t you see that you get
enough attention already?
gorgeous rise, beautiful set,
midday radiance
colors only found in church steeples
light and gradients that dumbfound
my dumb mouth
every damn time
you bestow life
onto the green,
onto everything you reach,
which is oh,
everything - - oh please,
please, confound me
forever
(eda bee)
at night
i think it's funny how we all sleep
at the same time
our quiet roundabouts finally weightless enough
to breathe for a goddamn second
the half moon plays solitaire, yawning,
can't move on without that king of spades,
meanwhile some geezer is bubbling
zzz's in his shitty living room recliner
shouldn't we all take turns or shifts or
something? shouldn't we all
make sure that no one gets hurt or
make sure people obey the
daytime rules? since we all decided it was
dangerous, won't they run stop signs?
(the card is pulled - -
tides
erase - -)
at night,
we only trust each other long enough
to witness each other in the
morning
what's worth explaining
grey skies, the hum of traffic,
a father explaining why croissants flake
to his three-year-old, a car loudly
in need of repair --
goosebumps --
a breeze too cool for comfort --
a vacant church across the street,
laughter, a shop owner lingering in front
of his business
(funny how business has “busy”
living inside of it, even post-mortem)
the opposing music of two cars next
to each other at a red light, a marching band
entering while another one exits, a
doppler effect of popular sound at war,
a man running slower than another man’s stroll,
church bells --
is that church really empty? --
where does god rest,
where does god live?
does god live like we do,
waiting for the rain and listening before
heading back to the car,
hands grazing my bare shoulders to
warm from the cold,
checking the time so to not be late,
saying goodbye as “god bless you?”
i’m not sure if god intervenes so much as god
observes
(eda bee)
lunar pull
please, lover,
take me in
guide my hand while
you pull the tide over,
cover me up
with the syrupy indigo waves
of your voice in the nighttime,
wash away
the blue-light prophecies
of terrible news,
streams of apologies
at the river delta of my mouth
on yours, where
“sorry” means nothing
and everything, where
we heal and hide and pray
to wake up to a world
where light will reach
all places and all people,
all at once.
please,
can you
take us all
there?
(eda bee)
love poem
today you
asked me: “why am i not in
any of your poems?” honestly, i have
always wanted to write a love poem -- they
seem so nice and easy -- an eternal lazy river of
sunday mornings watching tv, nights where i burned the
soy honey salmon glaze, hikes and dribbles of sweat, tick
checks, bickering on the beach and getting sunburn, the many
perfect silences when we’re both reading, laughing at the wild
things, crying at the normal things, wondering how on earth
we’ve landed each other, wondering how on earth that we’ve
decided to stick around. you do the dishes and i (’ll) do
the laundry, i’ll cook and you pass me a joint. we
stumbled into each other on the passageway of
coincidence and tumbled into a whole life --
sure, we still need to apply for credit
cards -- but you make me forget that i
need one. i guess what i’m trying to
say is: honey, you’re rarely in
my poems because loving you
is the only thing i can
see clearly. i can
barely metaphorize
just how good
this thing
feels
(eda bee)
holding my tongue
i keep all of my bitching
in a little glass jar under my
tongue
and i spend every waking moment
monitoring the formation of my words
such that
my bottle doesn't shatter
and tear my lips to shreds.
i think i am able to be so kind only because
my poems are so bitter - -
every little thought that comes
is an intrusion on the sole desire that my heart wishes - -
to be docile,
to not stir,
to be at peace - -
so then why is it
that every time that i write one poem,
out pummels a landslide of others?
you can only say so much
out loud - -
once sound escapes,
there are people
who hear it - -
(then, what?
i would have to prepare my mouth
again?)
i will stick with the closed smile
that holds my tongue just so
i appear
pacified.
(eda bee)
freshly made sandwiches
oh, thank god,
sandwiches are back in style
just saw a new recipe on my phone!
(but did we really forget the simple intricacies
of a deli sandwich?)
for some reason, on the little screen,
they all look brand new,
not like the cheap bologna
that mom used to make.
is this really a new discovery —
are our mothers’ wrinkles worth nothing?
did i need to witness
another slice of white bread
parading on screen as
hollywood’s freshest eighteen-year-old?
i think i’m the one
that’s out of the loop —
why is everyone
drooling?
(eda bee)
i hope it was wind
lone sneaker on the highway,
where is your sister?
you've no sole,
no inhabitant, no habitat,
no toes wriggling or heels bouncing
under a school desk - -
too small to be grown,
too large to be grown into - -
no chance of a hand-me-down,
if not for a generational curse,
o lone sneaker,
dilapidated as an ancient artifact,
are you your sister's keeper?
to this i hope
she was giggling with her feet
out the window, toes gracing
the summertime air,
radio waves beaming into her heart
a wild song --
i hope it was wind
that knocked your socks off --
i hope,
o lone sneaker on the highway,
that your twin isn't
up all night wondering
where you
lie
(eda bee)
since when?
since when
are politicians
encyclopedias?
this is right, but
that is a myth
take it with some
salt of the earth:
you’re just a
long flesh tube with a voice
just like the rest of
U.S.
(eda bee)
loser
i'm a loser by trade - -
do not pity me,
i've lost my car keys
and faithless debit card
more times than boozers choose
booze - -
i'm a loser and i lose
“important documents” - -
but to whom
are these papers important to?
my license, my keys again, my new
belt bought yesterday, all
lost, somewhere, where my
hands slip and my silly little brain
misplaces, piles
memories mountain-high - -
and then, daybreak - -
i encounter said things once
i give up looking for them - -
so maybe i'm not the one
losing, simply
things arise when they choose
to come back into this lens,
each piece faulting to the floor from
mental Everest,
proud as ever.
i'm a loser --
i don't find, i
chance
(eda bee)
gorgeous, gorgeous girls
gorgeous, gorgeous girls
wake up in the morning,
eat something, blink,
brush their teeth,
and walk with their feet
gorgeous, gorgeous girls
pick up things with their hands,
look in the mirror,
and see their reflection
gorgeous, gorgeous girls
get up for work in the morning,
marry, birth, marry, birth, and
weep
gorgeous, gorgeous girls
rely on sunshine,
are made mostly of water, and
sigh
but
gorgeous, gorgeous girls
are
only
(eda bee)
mega millions
208 billion dollars
hoarded, awarded to
chipmunks
with full cheeks - -
taking bites from the reserve
taking bites from the july corn
taking bites from your family's table
drooling over
208 billion dollars
uncles and nieces and grandchildren
drooling over
thanksgiving dinner,
leftover
for lunch, congealed gravy,
plastic like the
TV remote buttons
flipping through the channels
on the news - -
in other news,
no one
wins
(eda bee)
naturalist, american
distant, yet
it’s out my window moaning
colder winds now
thoreau is banging his head against his coffin and
i’m plugging my ears on reflex - -
for some reason,
people are hand-carving earth into a labyrinth
and it’s fucking horrifying
us who bleed aren’t allowed time
for our unending wounds to scab over
so how could it be unnatural
to cower and frenzy
in this maze,
scrambling for hands along the inner wall?
the tree outside leans into autumn
red and pissed off, groaning
will these pigs ever learn?
(eda bee)
Poem
atop planed, creaky branches
Poem dances ballet, on
pointe, legs extending steady
and straight - - a mechanical
crane. drums beat
my heart into a
murmur. no poem can pump
all this
weight. in between
eighth notes Poem interrupts - -
changes the subject, grabs
me by the shoulders (useless
bones) and shakes the Living
Hell out of me: “When can I have
my own pulse?”
i start making dinner, set the
water to boil --
bubbles (pigeons
glued perpendicular to the wire)
form at the welled, silver
bottom - - melted mercury,
and Poem wants its fill Now. “not
nearly finished,” i muster. steam rolls
over the microwave horizon,
zaps broccoli till it's fit
for vehicle use. Poem notices
already that i don't have enough
utensils to eat, and then has
the audacity to ask me to
borrow my
pen
(eda bee)
are you what you are what you
eat? well,
what am i if i eat
arroz y frijoles? certainly
not Latinx. certainly
if i eat ten crȇpes, i
cannot speak Français
“parlez vous?"
no,
but what if i eat
a feather - - would
it make any of this
lighter?
(eda bee)
catching yourself
oh, thank god,
there’s a white wall
absolutely dying for
me to stare at it,
emptily- -directly
at an anomalous,
barely-existent scuff
(grey,
rubbered-off - - did
someone toss their shoe
up there?)
my eyes for thy beauty pine,
o pale drywall!
you appease my insatiable
vision, swirling ever still
while my glasses reflect you perfectly
back to my gaze
like a bear paw to a honeycomb
my eyes are stuck on you
no motive, but a heavenly pull
while i ramble off and away
thank god
you’re here,
or else
i would have
no subject to this
painting
(eda bee)
new year, new me!!!
new year, new me!
happy - happy - happy - -
new - new!
welcome, all
motherless births, reckless
abandoners
leaving your childhood in the dust,
conveniently neglecting
all of the shitty things i’ve done,
loud outbursts and oversharing
bidding for connection
rendering other ones useless
without trying the sewing kit first,
(needle in hand - -
i would rather prick myself
than admit that growth
glorifies folly)
drop the ball, then,
count down from ten,
cheers to our newest mistakes - -
wash it down,
baptized, supposedly anew,
and deal with the hangover
that ‘not’ you
gave you last
night
(eda bee)
honest mistake
words from kindergarten dribble
from my lips like the milk
pooled atop the kitchen counter
white on the white porcelain tiles
(out the window: snow cloaks
pale grey skies to transcend god’s
dogma horizon)
while the melted
ivory fills in the cracks - - cement
sidewalk with rainwashed hopscotch
artifacts - - pastel renderings of wide
eyes - - staring into earth’s smallest
(ants, uninvited,
march in the ancestral column
alongside exiled dandelions)
faults - -
whirls of waxy crayons
evaporate into a preschool scene:
sun in the top-left corner, triangle skirt
curly-haired girl with apricot feet
cemented to the asphalt road. suddenly
these shoes i’m in feel much too large
(alice, alone,
slams a shot of absinthe)
but now all i feel is
a plush towel in my palm.
i press it to the marble.
it drinks, soaking,
nourishing
with milk, saltwater,
and years of
practice
(eda bee)
gratitude
when i was little,
i would hold my breath
when going past the cemetery,
afraid that i would accidentally
inhale and absorb
another soul
today i walk in it,
i sigh
to deeply, earnestly whisper:
thank you
(eda bee)
peeling potatoes
in the basement of a
church
Man asks,
"would any of you like some coffee?
a doughnut?"
He pulled sweets from a box with St.
Louis XI's portrait on it
some girl flashes her shiny hair at
His face
she asks for cream and sugar.
boiling water in industrial pots
rolling clouds
condensation and Michelangelo's tears
cherubs spouting
"he that hath a bountiful eye shall be blessed;
for he giveth of his bread to the poor.:
Man asks,
"why do we have to serve these [epithets]?"
the bountiful eye fiddles with
her rosary
and rolls her eyes, annoyedly,
shrugs, "i don't know."
the brown peels flop to the floor
the earth's salt seasons
all of us without
our
knowing
(eda bee)
more poems to be uploaded soon!
(eda bee) poetry 