Leaving Tallahassee

Here, everything lives. Always.

 

Palm fronds on the lids of my eyes,

tangles of Spanish moss and

ivy along my spine.

Hydrangeas on my kneecaps.

 

Live Oaks

drop

acorns,

pooling

at my

feet.

 

There, in the Midwest, I will be reminded of my own abscission.

 

My recent release of things

no longer needed;

in unison with my

dying home.

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Synonyms

Kudzu: Suffocation.

Breathless in the warmth

that seeps through

weakened veins.

 

Art: Substitute.

Cultural geophagy;

satiated

with the land of others’ minds.

 

Silence: Sadness.

Grinding teeth to bone,

with secrets that

sleep in the next room. 

Undercliff

Silt rinsed over me,

shackled to the river bottom.

Murky water rushed against

the small of my back,

the break in my spine.

Chips of graphite

clawing at my fingertips,

or my fingertips at them.

 

I was searching,

rather, rifling through the

forces – the falling star,

the dirty current,

the burning leaves –

to find words

that might make you

crawl on my shores.

 

Instead,

you asked me how to be

a good lesbian,

asked for an anatomy lesson,

offered to pay for my drinks

at the local bar,

where you cried, saying

I wouldn’t let you live in Colorado.

 

My response was steady,

in sync with the

ebb and flow.

Yes, yes, yes.

And crashing

on the banks of your

opposition,

though the wind was still.

 

In the morning,

we found a fraying rope

at the edge of the water,

down by the overpass.

I hesitated to plunge,

feet first, because I could see the rocks,

the fish, the reflection of cars on the highway,

going north.

 

But, yes.

I did touch you by the fire,

explaining the sum of which parts

is orgasm.

Yes.

I did jump into

collarbone deep, icy black to prove

I had it in me.

And, yes, I’d go anywhere with you.

30 Poems in 30 Days

I imagine all southern girls,
Smell like peaches and kiwi fruit,
To keep hold of the memory of their great-grandmother’s pies in the windowsill,
And their longing for far away lands,
Respectively
The girls’ hair, Spanish moss,
Dripping, curled and wild off their tan scalps, thriving,
A life of their own
White lines on the hidden parts of their bodies,
Like archaic borders
Separating light from
The darkness