Raggedy Ann

there is the moment

when the other shadow

slips too close

the legs quickens their pace

left right left right left right

breathe in.

hold.

glance

leftrightleftrightleftright

all the while

streetlights tower like

dead jack-o-lanterns

chanting mantras

don’t look back

shadows converge

strong hands circle the neck

the body

jerks, strains, finally folds

a rag doll with closed hands

and a stitched mouth…

she hurls screams

into blackness

but her mouth betrays her

the stitches hold

and her eyes will not close

there is picture but no sound;

movement but no chorus

frantically she bucks her straw hips

to dislodge the dead weight

that suffocates her

but there is only the

whiplash of bone

cutting through silence

all that is left

is the ringing;

the reverberations

from the pavement

echoing

“you bitches are all the same.”

her second mouth

a single scar

that wrecks her swan posture

a second mouth

that screams redemption

to the city gutter

that swallowed her blood like rain

while she waited

to finally sleep

without shaking and cutting her teeth

he carved her a smile

for the ones she had missed

while she was waiting

for winter to pass

and the sidewalk to finally give in

he carved her a smile

so she could no longer speak

her tears mixed with iron

and the city's cold shoulder gave way

her hands flailing openclose like a fishmouth

where are the women of Dan

with their swords

to fight this plague of locusts?

where is the rising

like air ?

her feet are dancing death

no sword in her mouth

the air mocks her grasp

and night falls hard and terrible

her second mouth

gapes open like a cavern

her second smile

seeps through the cracks

he pounds her skin into pavement

and the city, it keeps, it keeps.

EAC © 2010

i was wondering

i was wondering if you could

fall free fast like flying

from the bottle opener of time

catch the landscape in your palm

pushing past flint rock aberrations

crater stone and knee cap strong

the water rushes in leaving me

wading through silence long gone

i was wondering if you could

run race streak like clouds

on fire in the june sky

hold on to me as i burn

contesting the wooden edges of space

the fragile fabric of our youth disappears

like birds along the horizon long erased.

EAC © 2005

Your Hands

your hands erase me

the acrylic stillness of your fingertips

pocketing pieces of my flesh--

a fitting offering for the red want

that floods my veins

you watch painstakingly

as i disappear where my ends meet

where the yearning suffocates

and sizzles like an open wire

in the grey weary night

i have become empty and estranged

uncloaked and unkempt

clinging to the walls

that soothe the edges

and swallow me whole

hold me phantom

a little while longer

EAC © 2010

how it feels...

i can feel it coming now that i am older. slow and pulsating. creeping and suffocating. i can brace myself for the impact. place my hand over my heart and count the beats like a fated metronome. when i was smaller, it would hit me unannounced, hurling me into blackness. the buzzing in my ears would drown out all sound. i would bury my face into my palms, wet with tears. my hot breath moving across the valleys of my hands, the only thing letting me know i was still alive.

now my skin starts to hurt, and i always fear that this is the moment when i have finally become untouchable. i feel the blackness seeping into my lungs, making it hard to breathe. i feel the tar forming underneath my feet, making it hard to move. i feel my heartbeat in my head, trumpeting the static that crackles and screams, making it hard to think or speak. the ghosts get restless and the sheets scrape at my skin. i long for hands that are not my own. words that will soothe the wounds. i try to erase myself and redraw the lines, but my hand shakes and the lines are charged and raw.

when i was smaller, i would climb the trellis on the back porch to the roof where i would lie staring at the sky for hours, waiting for the blackness to leave...inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, hoping that the wind would fill my lungs with air that didn't taste like acid. inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. i would trace words into the roof tiles until my skin bled like some ancient ritual to appease the gods. inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, amen.

i can feel it coming now that i am older. i brace myself for the impact.

the photo

there is a photo of you and i. i am small. my knees curled to my stomach. my face, covered, resting on my hands. mom said that is how i must have slept in the womb, already protecting myself from violence unseen. you are asleep, stretched out, taking up space. i curl up trying to disappear.

you are asleep and i am wide awake, a thin grimace on my face. there is a small distance between us, and i will not cross it, because i don't want to be touched by you. everything in that picture is lifeless. except the sheets--they are only thing filled with color. i still have them. they still smell like that house.

i drove by it once, slowing at the driveway, staring at the oak tree in the front yard, the sloping branches where i would hide, curled up in the womb of the tree waiting for it to pass. there are only a few pictures of us, only one where i am smiling. you rarely smiled. you collected things that were beautiful and tried to keep them still and untouched. sometimes, i think, i am still waiting for it to pass.

the dance

i have been unable

to look you in the eyes

since he disappeared

in smoke and ash

since the phone call came

and i wept on the sidewalk

until morning

and now

you are here

your eyes

filled with the same

lackluster performance

and the heated effort

to push it back

drown out

the way he used to laugh

with a drink

drown out

the songs that he sang

with a dance

i would never say it

of course

that he is there

reflected in your pupils

like i know he is in mine

i only move in

holding you up

my hand against your back

you mistake my touch

for something closer

to the performance

a lie

a fake gesture

i only wanted

to say

it's okay

to break

so you can break

the dance continues

we fight the reflection

my hand never leaves your back.

EC © 2005

Scene 1: The Kitchen

the crack of his hand against her cheek propels her backward. her head snaps unconvincingly to the right, her temple smashing into the iron knob of the kitchen cabinet. it takes mere seconds to occur, but years, it seems, for her to slump to the tiled floor. a wave of alarmingly red pain washes over her. shes sways disturbingly, her hands flailing to find something to hold her upright. the wave finally overcomes her, her body falling to the floor.

from this angle, everything is white. everything is blank. from this angle, thought--they ride the tide of unconsciousness, falling faster with her toward blackness.

someday....my....someday...was that something else...what was it...

she fights the blackness, pulling her hands up under her chest, preparing to lift herself off the floor. all she can see is his scuffed, leather dress shoes. pacing, pacing, pacing. and then they stop. the red, searing wave is replaced by the familiar feeling of nausea. she clenches her jaw, locking her teeth, forming a barricade. her stomach jerks, the spasms coming faster. she feels the powerlessness of her body, but she fights anyway.

don't vomit. don't vomit. don't vomit. don't vomit. don't. don't. don't....

he is moving again. his feet come closer. he is shouting, but she can't understand what he is saying. she can't look away from his shoes. from this angle, everything is blank. from this angle, his words do less damage. he finds her unresponsiveness infuriating. he draws back his right foot. she blinks. before she can tell her body to move, to shrink, to disappear, the tip of his shoe digs into her abdomen, forcing her to curl inward, all the air contained within her body escaping through her mouth in a guttural cry that drowns his bellowing insults.

she reaches for something, her hands slipping, grappling with the sticky cleanness of the floor. there is nothing to grasp. she gives up, placing her cheek to the floor, trying to find the air to fill her lungs again.

oh god. oh god. oh god. please. please. please stop. please. stop. stop. stop.

"get up. we are going to be late." he walks away.

she watches his shoes walk away. as he leaves the kitchen, his shoes almost look polished. almost.

slowly, she begins to move. it takes more convincing on her part every time--to tell the arm to bend, to place the hand on the floor, to push her upper body up, to move her feet inward... finally, she is standing, her hands shaking, her breath still coming out in ragged gasps. she carefully smooths her shirt and tucks her hair behind her ears. these, the actions of normalcy that helps maintain some sense sanity.

already the moment has passed. she will get dressed. they will not be late.

I Know How.

i don't mind being alone. i'm comforted by silence and the sound of my feet shuffling across the hardwood floors. i know how to be alone. i grew up alone, huddled around books and papers, murmuring to stuffed animals to drown out louder, hostile voices i was too young to hear. i know how to be alone, but there are days...days when the silence is too loud and my hands are clumsy and incapable.

i'll slip into a dress, revel in the fabric as it brushes past my hips, sits calmly on my waist. i slowly slip my arms through the open spaces, working my hands down to the start of the zipper. at a certain point i can go no further. i wrench and turn, grimace and twist. just a few more inches and i would be complete, but i can't cross the distance of my back. i sit on the edge of the bed in frustration, finally ripping the dress off, cursing as i rustle through drawers, kicking shoes across the floor, and stomping indignation into the floorboards.

i don't mind being alone. i know how to be alone. i have thrown away all the dresses.