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Thoughts – cyanotic

http://cyanotic.org/thoughts

I wonder if, like mine,. Your bones are quartz. What fills and breaks. Does the light pass. Slowly through your skin. Or not at all? There are things inside. Me which you do not know. And I’ll never tell,. But you’ll see through. To the other side. While I tease you. I'm Alli, a reference librarian. Who moonlights as a poet and cold-process soapmaker. I like wearing stupid costumes, collecting Asian ball-jointed dolls. And laughing at my own pretensions.

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Navigation – cyanotic

http://cyanotic.org/navigation

Like a sailor I will chart a course. Across your brow, its fine lines, creases. I have loved before I knew how to find. You, how to look to the stars and see. Where I belong: between Orion and Cassiopeia,. The space where neck meets jaw. And constellations beget lights. To My 16-Year-Old Self. I'm Alli, a reference librarian. Who moonlights as a poet and cold-process soapmaker. I like wearing stupid costumes, collecting Asian ball-jointed dolls. And laughing at my own pretensions.

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prose – cyanotic

http://cyanotic.org/category/prose

I keep the fireflies of my desire stopped up tight in a bottle, its milk glass fragile, opaque. Pour them onto your hands, straw man. Let them gather in your palms so I may blow them across the sky to burn your night. Soon the men arrive, six of them, packed like raw sardines against the smooth chrome of a beat-up Chevy just as in the dreams. She’s not afraid of them, not quite. Right now she’s afraid of the idea. She’s not sure why she’s embarrassed; she’s seen them all before, they&#8...The men sneak g...

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Confessional – cyanotic

http://cyanotic.org/confessional

Forgive me, father, for I have sinned. I wanted to have the baby. I wanted to feed it. Lye from my breasts. I wanted to raise it. Catholic, swaddled, blank. Left beneath the oak tree, never. Minded. Like a mother I baked. The bread: round, full. Glutted myself on the taste. I drew the ellipse around your name. This one, only. Then the dark was too clear. And I saw it as it was,. I'm Alli, a reference librarian. Who moonlights as a poet and cold-process soapmaker. And laughing at my own pretensions.

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To My 16-Year-Old Self – cyanotic

http://cyanotic.org/to-my-16-year-old-self

To My 16-Year-Old Self. They tell you you’re not in love, but you are. Isn’t it terrible? To love so selfishly, so. Completely, is the opposite of love, they say. But you know the truth. It is all there is. You think you know death, but you don’t. You’ve read all the books, studied your Plath. And Goethe and the Brontes that matter,. But not from beneath the heavy blanket of sorrow. You believe you won’t live to see 30. But that your father will live forever,. His Superman heart racing on.

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poetry – cyanotic

http://cyanotic.org/category/poetry

These days I carve holes. Into the palms of my hands. With the thin pale tooth. I touch my hands to the glass:. The pale light dances. Across my breasts,. I will go first, dear. Aims to capture in one take. The longing with which. Constrained by words, not pictures,. Days we think: not rain. In the lightbulbs of. The itch we scratch. Forgive me, father, for I have sinned. I wanted to have the baby. I wanted to feed it. Lye from my breasts. I wanted to raise it. Catholic, swaddled, blank. This one, only.

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Absence – cyanotic

http://cyanotic.org/absence-2

These days I carve holes. Into the palms of my hands. With the thin pale tooth. I touch my hands to the glass:. The pale light dances. Across my breasts,. I'm Alli, a reference librarian. Who moonlights as a poet and cold-process soapmaker. I like wearing stupid costumes, collecting Asian ball-jointed dolls. And laughing at my own pretensions.

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cyanotic – Page 2 – like a watercolor from our eyes

http://cyanotic.org/page/2

Beside you I mimic the sea,. All tides and currents. Washing away silt and sandbar. I am set off by moons,. The light drowning scent of salt. That covers our skins. There is an empty nest in me. Each day I add to it. Paper, twigs, string: I weave them with moss. It is a shell, shallow and wide. Inside I store rings of amber and glass. Scavenged from the black road. Last night I plucked the blue from your eyes. Then I embroidered the nest. Far above the jays sang,. Their cries circling the edges of me,.

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Boundaries – cyanotic

http://cyanotic.org/boundaries

There must be a finite limit to our love,. He said. But I could not draw it on a napkin,. Doodled in the margins of crumbs and stains,. Nor could he join the points of the graph,. Which we’d once thought carefully plotted. If you wish to make an apple pie from scratch,. You must first invent the universe. He had quoted,. Standing astride the genesis of our cosmos,. Our Big Bang: the yellow bedsheets, the atoms. Of oxygen swirling through arteries and hearts. Now he sees boundaries where had been promise:.

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Decoration – cyanotic

http://cyanotic.org/decoration

Your hands are sticks. Bound to your arms with twine. We bought from the Home Depot. I am a bed lofted high,. Touching the exposed beams. We want to see the beautiful things. A sky is the color of paint chips,. A moon is a plate we found. On sale, half-off. I'm Alli, a reference librarian. Who moonlights as a poet and cold-process soapmaker. I like wearing stupid costumes, collecting Asian ball-jointed dolls. And laughing at my own pretensions.