8 Ounces and Counting

“I am a wooden pole,” you said.

“I bear weight, and gladly, but too much and I will collapse.”

And the words of the song from the man that you love slid into my ears

As if they are made for me

About me

My heart is heavy, and I have broken stronger men

It’s only a matter of time until your splinters split my palms

Until then I will hang on and I will try

   —I swear to god I’ll try—

To find strength in these shaking thighs and breathless nights

If we are very, very lucky all this effort will result in biceps made of steel

A belly tight enough to move mountains

And I will lift my own heart before the weight snaps us in two


Becoming (a poem)


moon over Rishikesh
I am being bornI am giving birth
Labor, tearing me apart

Crushing me

Breaking bones that should be malleable

Soft and pliable

But they crack

And they jut

And they shred

I am alone with my Self

The pain I inflict sets me screaming

No one hears

No one can

What sound does a soul make when it dies

When it lives

I think it is something like a river crashing

Like earth crumbling

Something like the moon turning

In it’s slow, sweet orbit