September 2007 poetry project from angelfire saving it

 

Poem 8 -- Unfinished Poem When is a lie a lie? Is it the intent or the consequence? Is it a lie when you forget a detail or omit it? Is it a lie if you don't reveal it all at once, but piece by piece. Is it a lie if it is a mistake? a lie if you embellish?

 

©Rachel Levine 2007

Poem 9. Real Do you care if I wear sweatpants and a T-shirt with a hole on backwards, no lipstick or mascara? I never wear make up anyway. My Birkenstocks with socks -- one thin and beige, one thick and white with pink stripes, pink heels. Do you care if I haven't showered in days or shaved my legs? If I lie across a half made bed with books piled and spiralled around me? I want to see the real you. I'm opening a vein. A risk When I show you me from the inside. This the pain I can't identify But pain all the same. I can't name it. It's in me, in my blood, in my sweat, in my saliva, in my breath. Permeating Every cell. Unabating sandess. The will to die. Alienation. I am empty every day. When I bleed all over the floor, will you help me clean it up? I want to know more about you and  Whatever remains when you're done with the dramatics.

 

©Rachel Levine 2007

Poem 10. Come Home I wanted to buy you a red shirt from Nepal with embroidered cuffs. The buttons were made of wood. I took it from the rack and carried it as I studied Tibetan singing bowls, felted shoulder bags, and silver jewelery. I studied the shirt, a shirt you would never wear, and left it on the counter.

 

©Rachel Levine 2007

Poem 11. Email You sent me an email. One line. It hurt to write more. It hurt worse to say nothing. The September 2007 poetry project consists of writing one poem per day in the month of September and putting it up for public consumption regardless of its state of completion.   A tree backbends in the wind. Infinitie We are all just atoms, energy vibrating. I am the same as this pen, the same as this ink, the same as the air I breathe. I am the same as the tree and only think I can not backbend. __ Poem 13 My dog sees the body first, Barking the alert, Barking the alarm. A girl? a boy? Bony, young, small, head pillowed against the wall, Body cradled by the earth, Body cushioned by dew and grass. A thin mattress of clover. Grey sweatshirt pulled overhead, No socks, ripped sneakers, A knife handle poking from a pocket, like a morning erection. No breath. I wait for breath. Breathe. Please, breathe. A daddy long legs stumbles over the face, Touching what I can not. Not a twitch, but then the ribs rise and fall. My work here is done. __ Poem 14 The guilt that you like me The guilt I don't like you is ripping the seams in my stomach. I can't even look you in the eye. I can't stay in this bathroom longer. Flight is not an option. You watch me from across the room, You watch in quick glances guarding every smile that greets my own. Patent in how you touch my shoulder, my arm, Patent in your posture, You wait for me to answer your questions, probing questions about me, questions I don't want to answer. It is such an easy kindness to talk to you, but is it kinder not to?       ©Rachel Levine 2007