CategoryCreative Writing

Watch me wavemy red fan—

see howmy arms dancelike a youngtreein a warmgust.

Sense mejustoutside,bent low.

Listenfor the snapa bone—bleata lamb.

I’m comin’home.

I denied myselfloveto better love,but not myself—great undeserverof love—great beast—lurking Grendel…Always hunting.Always hungry.Who will unfixthese gentle teeth?

Farewell, fair painter—Our room is dim and bareWhere my portrait,Painted with unfair beauty,IntendedTo comfort the night.

I lack all skill to frame it,All strength to hang it,Now that I’ve so bravelyCrawfished my patronage,And sent you homeWith only stars to light your way.

Tremble before my love.What grips a wounded lifesoftens against balmy touch.What withdraws from flamehardens at the scent of you.Green apples never souredso sweetly at my bite.Ripe flesh never split—refreshing juice, quenched;whittled core, so soon browned. How many futures have I slainin resurrection of my love,eager witness to brim heat,honest devotee to this restless corpse,whose first rays...

I lie in bed and cross myselffrom head to chest,

then shoulder to shoulder,then clasp my handsand shut my eyes,

and I can see nothing.

But I choose to see you there—your right hand holy,turned out for me;

my second mother, robedin white beside,a golden sunriseat her feet.

I see all thisin the blacknessof the backnessof my eyelids,

where what isand what Iwish to bemeet.

My little rage, so neatly keptwithin my bedside table drawer,close to call and quick to comewhen the roaring house sleepsand leaves me, and I, alone— when lonely consciousness doffscap upon capupon my bedside table drawer,and last of all my owncheckered cap I keep,with streaks of whiteand streaks of black,flat and deformedand frayed and sour— now he comes, my little rage,upon this very hour...

I did not come here to wish you good night,when all my nights are choked with vengeful thoughtsand vivid memories so cruelthey keep me wet with winter sweator steam my summer sheets,anticipating my homecoming eve. I’ve quite forgotwhat good nights might look like. Your sweet, unburdened sleepI will not sourwith foul penitence,unearned by my unresting soul,which dreams onlyto rest in you. I did...

I am ready to be a feather in the wild wind. I am ready to be a leaf, drifting face downin a swift creek. I am ready to be the climbed treeand the fractured rock—to be the sailboat in a storm— because I’m so damn tired of being the captain. So tired of the sea questthat’s taken the morning of my life— I’ve sailed to the edge of the worldand looked over,and what I saw staring backwas terrible and...

I did not come here to pick a fight with you,but I’m ready with a fair right hookto hook your nose or sand your eye,so don’t even try—don’t even try—I’ve lost to better men than you,I’ve lost and conquered better men by far,although I’d like to keep a closer hand tonight,and so I say: I did not come for war. In Haberdashthere is no lower man than I,no man to match my old fork in the eyeor the way...

O winter tree,on a cold Tuesday,your whiskers bristlingat gray dawn.

I care so littlefor your green leaves lost;you, for my spirit’s frost—yet He—infinitely.