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xsingsparrow

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1996 [Jan. 3rd, 2012|10:17 pm]
xsingsparrow

i'm six and i'm carrying a sippy cup of orange drink.
my swimsuit bottoms are too small,
so there are deep, red lines around my thighs.
my legs are sticky with wet grass.
i don’t know whose house i'm at,
but i really have to pee.

i approach the mystery house
first opening the screen door, then
the heavy back door.
there are more doors inside
and two barking horses,
jumping and pushing their giant hooves into my
inflated belly; my full bladder,
but there are no people.

i shove past the mares
out of the laundry room, where earlier
i was handed a soft, warm towel
with Tigger and his arms to wrap me up in.

i spot a potty on the other side of the kitchen
across from the fuzzy staircase.
my swimsuit is stinging my bottom
but the galloping is coming closer behind me.

one more nudge and i know i won't be able to hold it anymore.
i ready my stance
and saddle up just in time
to ride away, leaving only
yellow paw-prints across the cream linoleum floor. 

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the slide [Jan. 3rd, 2012|10:16 pm]
xsingsparrow
it opens wide, as if from inside a lion
red, gaping
you enter with the hope of reaching the tip of its tongue
an escape
but the tunnel looms as it
twists this and that way
covered, concealing
molding vomit from a drunk
a past six-year-old swashbuckler's scared-to-death piss
a used condom, broken
the line of kids behind you is becoming rowdy with anticipation
there's only moving forward
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Sunday Evening [Aug. 18th, 2011|11:15 pm]
xsingsparrow

My knees are yawning
and all of your little brown hairs and my little yellow hairs tuck each other in.
Your eyelashes are already swaying to the thumbing bass beats
so I won’t ask you anymore questions about breakfast or job hunting or
your little brother’s new school.


When I pull the fuzzy quilt up over my face, my little pink toes
stick out and tickle the frayed
strings at the top of your Telecaster
my cracking ankles keeping time.


Your quilt smells like cinnamon
or your mom’s fading memories of
getting you back to sleep too early in the morning
riding around in the front seat of her old Chevy, windows down
Spanish singing stifled by the Houston humidity.


Or maybe I dreamed that up.



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space [Aug. 18th, 2011|11:13 pm]
xsingsparrow

I’m trying to fit inside a constellation.
Connect the dots from star to star.
I want to be a particle just big
enough to sparkle, but not big enough
to fill the blackness with my tiny light.


Orion’s belt wraps around me
twice and I can tie it into a pretty bow behind myself.


I’m trying to fit inside a constellation so I don’t take up
too much space.



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Finding Mr. Write (revised) [Mar. 21st, 2011|12:50 am]
xsingsparrow
Or the poem I’d want him to write to me

Tie your hair back with an old shoelace.
Let the wind catch wisps of your hair and
run with me like two lions in the wilderness.

There’s a squirrel by a tree that we chase in circles ‘til we fall like pennies in well.
Make a wish.

There’s a patch of dandelions and we crawl through
making wishes for the happiness of everyone we’ve ever had a crush on.
You steal my favorite t-shirt and play air guitar in my bed.

Kiss me like a coloring book
brightly and slipping outside the lines.

Take the shoestring out of your hair

and tie our hands together.
Let’s spend the night together
drawing ourselves in your sheets with our bodies.
Leave the window open.
We’ll talk ‘til the birds and sunrise wake the rest of the world we’d left behind.

You let me trace my fingertips on your belly and I write a poem about how
you’re too nice for me and how
I am too scared to ruin you.

You kiss my forehead and correct my spelling
and we fall back into your sheets and sleep ‘til the day fades into slumber again.
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The Pink House on Wilmes Dr [Dec. 13th, 2010|01:06 am]
xsingsparrow
There are look-pretty plates with pictures of kittens on the kitchen wall:
to the right of the window, a kitten sips from a faucet
to the left of the fridge, another sniffs at a rose.

There are magnets from Tyler, TX and Jacksonville
holding up a photograph of a little girl and a little boy
riding horses at the fair.
There’s funnel cake dust on the camera lens,
so the memories look like memories in movies do.

I sit at the kitchen table and circle my fingertip along the rim of my tea-glass.
I sat at the kitchen table and got my haircut by mother once.
She put tape on my forehead,
but she still didn’t get my bangs right.

I’m trying to remember if the screen on the backdoor was always so gaping.
The ivy on the gate is much taller than me now.
The zinnias I planted have long been overtaken by weeds
and the old blueandyellow swing-set has rusted.

I wonder if the new kids will be able to swing over the bar
like I never could.
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Lionessa [Nov. 8th, 2010|10:43 am]
xsingsparrow
I see the way your hair curls like thick spiral pasta
the way your fingertips seduce the backs of benches and staircase railings
the way your eyes don’t turn when the checkout boy at Walgreens watches
you bend for the shampoo on the bottom of the shelf.

Your cheeks are tan and freckled
and glow when you laugh at little girls dancing on the lawn to old Selena records.

You read Lolita in the waiting room
sing old Ella in the shower
and wear your mama’s leather pumps to the grocery store.

You’re the kind of lover that’s more than he can handle
and your thighs purr ‘til the L1 starts its route outside your apartment building.

You cry like a movie star
and move like a jungle cat
and your voice is like a chocolate malt on Sunday in mid August.

I see you’re getting awfully close to that little cub inside
who you’ll smear red lipped kisses on tiny bronze cheeks
who you’ll spend afternoons teaching two alphabets
who you’ll make grilled cheese for in mama’s leather pumps.

That little animal brings out the animal in you
like no man ever could.
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A Kind Girl [Nov. 8th, 2010|10:40 am]
xsingsparrow
She’s a leave-in-the-middle-of-the-night kind of girl
a steal-your-covers-while-you-sleep kind of girl
a socks-bra-skirt-in-a-perfect-pile-on-the-floor kind of girl.

She loves you, I promise

But it’s 5 AM
and she’s not
a meet-your-roommate kind of girl
a bacon-for-breakfast kind of girl
a morning-rumble-before-work kind of girl.

So the wind strikes her face
and the early sun burns her shoulders
in your parking lot, wishing she were

a full-night’s-sleep-tangled-up-with-you kind of girl.
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2:56 AM [Nov. 8th, 2010|10:33 am]
xsingsparrow
Sometimes in my dreams I'm a child
                                                  or a kitten
and it doesn't matter because I can play until dark

and when the street lights come on I come home to your arms
and am safe;

free to eat blackberries on the rock by the creek in summertime right off the vine
and never gain a pound ‘cos the sugar runs through me and keeps me alive.
In a dream world I am weightless
and you are weightless and we
swim through clouds and float through stars
unending.

One time I opened my mouth so wide to sing a song to your hands and your eyes and your hair
          that I swallowed a star.

How sweet are the stars right off the vine
I'd pick one for you and the sugar would keep you alive.
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Tuesdays [Sep. 2nd, 2010|10:49 pm]
xsingsparrow
Grandpa’s ears are fraying.

It looks like the fur from our cat
got caught in the wax
and now tickles the temple of his glasses.

He went out for the paper this morning at 6:45 sharp
just as Grandma dribbled the last of the grapefruit juice into two glasses.

Two pills on her placemat to the right of her spoon
              and three on the corner of his napkin.

He reads aloud from the Houston Chronicle at their dining room table in Austin.
He sucks his glass dry and smoothes a cloth napkin over his lips and kisses her forehead.

Golf clubs
Car keys
Garage door clicker

Grandma and the HD television watch each other in silence.
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