White Thighs

Posted in poetry with tags , , , , , on April 18, 2014 by Sarah Haynes

Look down at my leg as I write,

so white, so bruised, so capillaried.

My thighs tell the story of ill-fitting shorts,

bad photographs, insecurities,

ownership, a vice-like grip,

you: one among many,

my selectively promiscuous ways.

A warm home for kittens, a way

to hold others’ kids, while I wait;

always waiting, for my own cats

or progeny, my own blood-vessels to be

worth something more than bruising and

keeping my own breath alive.

 

Sway

Posted in poetry with tags , , , , , , on April 18, 2014 by Sarah Haynes

We would writhe together,

write together, slowly,

we would smile together,

and sway and get closer.

 

We can’t do anything together.

We won’t write and I won’t help you.

I keep expecting your words to arrive

but I know you want to be far away from me.

 

We aren’t anything anymore,

We only moved one speed, fast,

and I cried here all alone,

swaying in my bed, staring at nothing.

Fortuned Perfection

Posted in poetry with tags , , , , , , on April 18, 2014 by Sarah Haynes

I hope your night with her

helped you find that fortuned

perfection. I’ve thrown away

the slip of paper now, but too many

are still left to burn.

Magic 8-Ball

Posted in poetry with tags , , , , , , on April 18, 2014 by Sarah Haynes

Stuck behind the magic 8-ball,

my results read “try again later,”

but instead, I let the cue fall,

because the game was over.

Ill

Posted in poetry with tags , , , , , , on April 16, 2014 by Sarah Haynes

I’ve got frogs’ legs pumping their way

out of my throat, and feel like truck-bait,

a sitting duck on the road, ready to be hit.

I’m neighing and whinnying because I can’t

seem to get past being a sinker,

hanging on the end of your transparent

fly-line, and now it’s called off, the curled cord

around my neck is last of my hang-ups.

 

I’ve got a fever and the only prescription

is for you to stay the fuck away from me.

Eclipse

Posted in poetry with tags , , , , , on April 15, 2014 by Sarah Haynes

All we can really do is marvel at our own shadows,

wonder at our presence, the reflection of it

that we cast by blood and breath,

by the unnoticed actions we take.

All we can really do is enjoy the light,

when it’s around for us to appreciate, to miss

while it’s dying, to capture in glass jars glowing

like fireflies, like memories, like an eclipse.

Controlled Burn

Posted in poetry with tags , , , , , on April 15, 2014 by Sarah Haynes

Burned and still smoldering,

I am the wreckage of your deceit,

I am the black box that won’t forget

how you began your descent.

This fire is electric, this fire is eclectic,

I have words, I have memory, and

photographs, singed and tarnished maybe,

the innocent bystander in your immolation.

And this might be called a controlled burn,

but not because of you, fire-starter.

The flames have their own mind, now,

and it’s made up, no room for barter.

I’m the side of a barn, lit up by fireworks,

a dying star dragging all in its path, as it lurks.

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