consuelacooks

cooking, poetry, and unapologetic intense moments in a life

Month: March, 2013

No title

There is a certain time

when the growing up starts

slowly, they say

but it is loud, and sudden

and all at once you realize

you

you should be the thing

not the after

not the in between

The grass sprouts between your toes because you are on the solid ground.

no matter how much you want

no matter how much you move,

you cannot change anything or anyone.

You can only realize you are the best thing you’ve ever come up with.

And the lucky ones should stand in line.

All that being said.

I am glad for you. And glad it’s done.

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Mourning wear or I want to eat you alive.

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I have an invitation. It is pink and unique of all of this.

It grinds blue glass to sand, bone to dust.

It slides all over Africa, India, The Americas.

It names and numbers the blows, the freckles, the sideways glance

that is as long as you are lovely.

It alphabetizes each kiss for country matters

Strange like sea weed it weaves in and out of distrust

manuevering through feckless waters

of your underparts. Your secrets.

The way the light catches your

road-weary cheek on Sunday mornings.

When the sniffles still make you divine.

Sandman. Or keep passing the open windows.

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Muscle slips from bone 

shutter eyes begin a short story

It begins with something blue, some liquid

some pulse matter that wraps

even the fierce fire

in wet safety.

Each beat,breath cherishes the one before. They are all some celestial gift or some

fodder for butterfly kisses

each picture sneaks in a longer look at your sideways sleeping cheek

fleshy, soft, replete with

the most flight worthy birds

We whisper a secret in our tongues that only morning understands.

Fickle, fickle morning. Fickle first light.

The first light where you were most lovely.

Most lovely in that light.

On being medicated or Morning kisses

When the window shade sits just so

you are Suessian in the light.

And I remember all that I saw when we were so quiet-

and I counted your freckles in your sleep.

wise women tell tales in secret books

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In stealth
I lurked over it
seeing escapades
light, dark mischief
twenty lovers
one hundred miscarriages of justice
loss of things
a lie and a dark secret.

when I opened it
the pages creaked as if only opened
years ago

I found a phrase on the second page
in neat printing
the only one in the book.
I pictured her face as I prepared to read it.

“I write my life through action.”

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