poetry - A Marvelish Life (Page 3)

This, Too, Is Distinction

Tonight the candle twines fire with fire,
braided flame blooming in the bowl of my hand.
It hovers—lucent, tender—
in the pause between ease and ache,
a flicker caught in the throat of the room.
I hold it like breath, like a name half-spoken,
until my knuckles remember:
this is how light becomes letting go.

The air settles. My ribs still.
I slip like light through closed shutters.
It isn’t night yet—
but day has already folded.

Wine pools lush—red as reverence,
thick with warmth and memory.
A spill of want. Of what-if. Of stay-with-me.
It clings to the lip of the cup,
drips slow into the hollows of my throat.
It stains the silence. I drink. It lingers.
Her hand finds mine—warm
as breath against a mirror fogged by waiting.
I drink again. I let it mark me.

Then the burn.
Not fire—
but the body forgetting.
Tongue lined with metal.
Sugar crusted with bitterness.
Hunger folds into hollow.
The sweetness stings.
I pour again. The blessing says full,
so I overflow.

Spices now—
clove cracked between molars,
cardamom crushed soft in the seam of my palm.
Orange blossom braided into cloth,
rose-oil coiled at the wrist,
where her mouth pressed once,
before the room became a threshold.

I lift the sachet, breathe deep.
Memory rises in the chest like smoke,
sharp and soft,
a sweetness I can’t keep.

Each comfort I carry
warms before it wanes.

And the candle—
when it lowers into wine,
it does not scream.
It sighs,
smoke curling like a secret told.
The light unspools with a hiss
and I watch the last flicker fade,
the luminous self un-becoming—
unspeaking—
like language, like appetite,
like I will, some day too soon.

I lift the smoke toward my chest,
toward the place
where asking outlives words.
It stays longer than the flame.
The silence, longer still.

I mark my wrists. I kiss my fingers.
I press them to my lips
until I remember they are mine.

The week returns and I'm not ready—
its gone-cold teas, its threadbare sleep,
the soup I nearly finish, but don't.
Her hands refill the glass I forgot about,
set it near, without her saying a word.

And I cross again—
from sacred into unsure,
from held to holding on,
from the pulse of the flame
to the slow twilight
of what remains.

FORM 42‑L (rev. ∞) — BUREAU OF EMOTIONAL CONTRABAND

Author's note: If you're on mobile you probably want to flip to landscape instead of portrait...

───────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────── FORM 42‑L (rev. ∞) — BUREAU OF EMOTIONAL CONTRABAND ───────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────── SECTION I — IDENTIFICATION ┌───────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐ │ 1. Applicant Name (print clearly, in fragments) │ │ silence bruised by whispers │ │ that crawl beneath skin │ │ echo split by fractures │ │ murmurs carved in bone │ ├───────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┤ │ 2. Date of Application (temporal coordinates of psychic rupture) │ │ when your breath turned shadow │ │ and your pulse echoed backwards │ │ in the rising flood of midnight │ │ syllables erased from clocks │ ├───────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┤ │ 3. Attachment Designation (metaphorical taxonomy) │ │ asylum sought from memory │ │ (pending refusal), housed │ │ in chambers webbed by grief │ ├───────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┤ │ 4. Catalog Reference Number (office use, encrypted) │ │ ⍓ [REDACTED]⧃ echo→ref→ref→ref→null │ │ CODEX: breath.key//FAIL—checksum bled through sigil border │ │ static.murmur.loop(7) / recovered fragment in rib-cipher │ │ ✶ entropy drift exceeded archival threshold │ │ ∴ continuity breach logged at midnight echo: status = UNFIXABLE │ │ → refer to Dept. of Discontinuous Retention │ └───────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┘ SECTION II — ORIGIN & CONDITION ┌───────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐ │ 5. Origin of Attachment (fill in appropriate moon phase) │ │ 🌕 seeped from marrow 🌒 inherited echoes │ │ 🌗 misrouted prayers 🌘 corporate hauntings │ │ 🌓 empathy contraband 🌑 accidental invocation │ │ 🌖 misplaced breaths 🌔 archived dreams unsealed │ ├───────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┤ │ 6. First Symptom Noted (describe poetically, minimum couplet) │ │ a cough shaped like doorways │ │ footsteps in empty throats │ │ whispers mistaken for wings │ │ echoes bound in ribbon veins │ │ inhalations stuttering, unsure │ │ mouth leaking quiet storms │ ├───────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┤ │ 7. Current State of Matter (precise imagery required) │ │ fog braided with veins │ │ glass splintering softly │ │ bone humming forgotten songs │ │ vapor fingers threading loss │ │ lungs rusting into ghost breath │ │ pupil pools awash in haze │ └───────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┘ SECTION III — DECLARATION OF INTENT ┌───────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐ │ 8. Intended Disposition (select all that apply using the least appropriate │ │ symbol available) │ │ ☒ archival forgetting 🗷 ceremonial erasure │ │ 🗹 melancholy curation ☑ indefinite quarantine │ │ 🞕 exhibit of invisible scars 🗳 surrendering of breath │ │ 🗸 sealing doors within doors │ ├───────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┤ │ Clerk's Note: Symbol misuse has been noted. Filing continues under protest. │ ├───────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┤ │ 9. If archival, specify shelf label (provide elegiac fragment) │ │ heartbeat archives, sealed │ │ labeled only by absences │ │ language no tongue can hold │ │ boxes brimming empty │ │ code that grief abandoned │ │ archive locked in silent pulse │ └───────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┘ SECTION IV — ATTACHMENT NARRATIVE (attach whispers if audible) ┌───────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐ │ 10. Narrative (minimum stanza of six lines) │ │ it arrived clothed in breath, │ │ trailing threads of unfinished speech. │ │ offered tea brewed from midnight tears, │ │ it drank until moonlight leaked from fingers. │ │ now it nests behind my ribs, │ │ murmuring in languages lost to grief, │ │ a tenant weaving sadness into tapestry, │ │ stitching marrow into shadowed lace. │ │ i tried eviction through whispered pleas, │ │ writing petitions onto dissolving paper. │ │ but its roots grew deeper— │ │ memory flowering darkly, feeding from dreams. │ └───────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┘ SECTION V — APPLICANT OATH ┌───────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐ │ I certify the attachment described is irrevocably true, │ │ unresolved, leaking steadily, and bound in shadow. │ │ Falsification invites recursive penalties without mercy or appeal. │ │ │ │ Signature (trace outline): ink stained by trembling hands │ │ Date (rhythm of loss): the hour clocks refuse to keep │ │ Witness (metaphysical identity): shadow casting fingerprints │ └───────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┘ ───────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────── INTERNAL USE ONLY — DO NOT WRITE BELOW THIS LINE ───────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────── ┌───────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐ │ Intake Clerk Initials: • ≋ • │ │ Processing Queue: Σ ⚙ ∆ ‡ ◌ │ │ Emotional Audit Status: unresolved recursion, referral mandatory │ │ Archive Eligibility: ☑ sentenced to murmured shelving │ │ ☐ set aside for shadow laundering │ │ │ │ Rejection Justification (if applicable): │ │ echoes documented insufficiently faint │ │ applicant breathes too loudly in ink │ │ memory refuses relocation, clings— │ │ haunting certified permanent │ │ │ │ Internal Error Log (note irregularities): │ │ form refused containment thrice, │ │ leaking whispers into office ventilation │ │ archive shelves rearranged autonomously at night │ │ stamps weeping ink, seals fogging silently │ │ │ │ Recommended Action: │ │ ☑ transfer to Department of Forgotten Speech │ │ ☐ consign to Office of Shattered Mirrors │ │ ☑ forward to Committee on Recursive Appeals │ │ │ │ Final Status: 𓋴𓎛𓄿 𓅓 𓂋𓋴𓅱 — awaiting storm │ │ clouds building in heartbeat rhythm │ └───────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┘

Ode to Lorlatinib

Little pink tablet,
smooth-edged promise,
stamped plainly:
Pfizer on one cheek,
25 LLN on the other—
three pressed nightly
through foiled windows,
serials and stamps
faint as breath
in aluminum skin,
each blister cracking
a crisp metallic curse
beneath my thumb.

Every evening,
I cradle your trio,
pale pebbles resting
like softened bullets
in a cupped palm,
film-coated bitter blessing
should you linger
a second too long
on a dry tongue
before cool water
nudges you downward—
a ritual refined by need,
perfected by repetition.

Your chemicals
whisper harsh truths—
headaches blossoming
behind bleary eyes,
words unraveling
into brain-fogged mush,
cholesterol rising
like invisible bruises,
numbers rising on monthly reports
I never wished
to read.

Yet faithfully,
I swallow you,
my flawed companion,
Pfizer-stamped protector,
quietly made in Freiburg,
boxed bureaucratically in Brussels,
dispensed freely in Prague—
no cost at the lékárna,
yet never without toll.
Each dose both leash
and lifeline,
each morning a maybe
tethered to the certainty
of side effects.

So here’s my humble gratitude,
Lorviqua—
double-edged healer
in pastel armor,
bitter miracle
cradled nightly
in tired hands:
you lace me with side effects, yes,
but also breath,
also days,
also time borrowed
from the teeth of chance—
and so I take you,
again and again,
pink pills pried
from foil
into fragile life.

⸺

That night, we traded
tales of a world
barely held together
by threads. You asked
which one I would snip
if handed shears
sharp as silence.
I answered,
without a tremor,
I’d sever⸺

Our Ghosts Are Present Tense

Prague's morning folds
like an old letter,
its edges softened
by time and loss,
a city of survived silences,
trams tracking scars
across cobbled skin.

I'm foreign here again,
with passport permission.
They say this makes me safe,
but a stamp is thin asylum—
history teaches quiet suspicion,
doorways know how shadows wait.

Across an ocean, my birthplace
breaks the bones of promises:
ICE vans as dark as cattle cars,
due process rerouted online,
while children whisper unanswered
in doorways left empty.

Legal residents are now erased,
mouths gagged and wrists zipped tight,
lives excised by red ink and signatures—
justice, a closed-court spectacle,
is shipped to private rented cells
The bitter weight of paper
mutes screams like snowfall—
“Temporary”

I walk Prague counting brass plaques,
tracing ghost names worn smooth,
my tongue twisted by the consonants
of families once disappeared—
do we still call it history
when it never ceased its haunting?

My queer body moves slow,
bones wary, trembling
under the threat of erasure—
the state's gaze finds difference,
defines it, tracks it, files it away,
waiting to rewrite the conditions
of our right to exist.

I fold mourning like the laundry,
ache for fathers deported mid-dinner,
plates still steaming, shoes untied,
images of childhood sliced sudden,
cleaved from belonging like limbs—
and wonder how countries learn so well
to carve apart families like meat.

Written in bloodlines and borders,
a thousand laws deceive, deliberate:
safety nets turned to snares,
visas revoked between clock-ticks—
homelands dissolved under our feet—
there are no warning shots
when law is the weapon.

I no longer recognize my homeland,
but I’ve always known it this way
even when I didn't see how often
its stars were burned with gasoline,
its eagle was strangled by violence.
This is the freedom that has always dragged
humans from factories, hospitals, dreams
to prisons built of forgotten files,
quietly shredded before dawn.

This mourning is an inheritance:
watching families become headlines,
yet again, catalogued casualties
in archives I'll never live to read.

Each dawn my shadow greets me,
asks timidly if today is the day
someone writes my obituary in newsprint,
misspells my name in quick ink—
foreign body, collateral damage,
legal at the wrong time, wrong place,
erased by a footnote,
voice hushed like ash, falling quietly
on freshly rewritten borders.

I hold memories warm
inside my lungs, say their names slow
in solidarity with the erased, the disappeared.
I remember here, now, defiant,
we must sharpen outrage into a blade,
that blade into truth, truth into resistance.

Let us bare that blade against oppression,
glinting sunlight into dark corners,
slicing through iron bars.
Let their captive birds escape,
carrying in their tongues
the names of all else who disappeared.

Let us hold onto each other fiercely,
no matter the weight of history,
no matter the shadows of borders.
We will carve space for our breath,
for our bodies to exist, to be known.

Let us be evidence, openly,
beautifully here—
our complicated names,
our stubborn survival.

Our voices will rise together,
woven from the threads of those lost,
never to be silenced again.

History must not silence us again.

Air Pressure

Grief doesn’t whisper,
it thunders—
a storm inside,
relentless,
pushing, pressing,
pounding my chest
until I can't catch my breath.
I don’t know how to hold it,
how to stop it from spilling
into everything.

I write to catch the pieces,
to stop them from scattering,
to squeeze out their sound—
but they slip,
they slip,
slide away,
and I—I—
I can’t—
I can’t—

Each word
feels too heavy,
but if I stop,
if I stop,
it will drown me,
flood the room
with all the things
I can’t say,
and I don’t know if I’ll survive
the stillness after.

I want to stop
but the words push,
they pulse,
they pound,
pushing past my hands,
forcing into the space
where the quiet used to lie—
and in that space,
I find the ache
I couldn’t hold
before.

It doesn’t heal.
It just spills—
words tumbling, tumbling,
too fast,
too thick to follow,
and I’m still trying to keep them,
still trying to keep them
from breaking me.
I don’t know if I’ll ever be enough
to carry all this weight—
both the silence and the sorrow.

I write to make it leave.
But it doesn’t leave,
it lingers,
settles—
like dust that isn’t swept away,
just…
stays.

But the words—
the words are all I have.
They are all that let me—
breathe
through
it

poetryA collection of 44 posts