magnoliaclarke-blog
magnolia clarke
write long and hard about what hurts. (e. hemingway)
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you look like the kind of trouble i’d like to find myself in
on a rainy day
windowsill collecting atmosphere
tongues collecting DNA in the pockets of cheeks.
maybe your teeth would taste like last nights laughter
and maybe your bones would feel like they were from of old.
//
you get off the train
leaving me to wonder
what your name would feel like
leaving my lips
on the q line
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the hardest part about all of this is i have to choose to give up on you every day.
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i expected more.
even here, even now,
i expect
three knocks on the door,
a rush towards the frame
and you,
standing there
"i'm so sorry.
i missed you so."
how horrendously interesting
to wish so much
for people
to wish for them
and for me
so many things that they simply are
not.
11:11 in 1211
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there is a thunderstorm in my belly
shaking the stars out of my skies,
slow rumbles rattle the cage of my heart
electric dashes, piercing triangles of light,
as logic traces through feeling, through thought
attempting to find the surface level on which to rest.
the clouds are heavy and the air clogged with electricity
internalizing you.
i could have played that game forever, with you.
i could have done it,
could have done forever, with you.
about Him
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they said new york was a cold and brutal place
and i think i agreed with them,
emphatic nodding as i thought about the angry ones and the frustrating ones
today
a woman fell over in the grocery store and i have never seen such a volume of individuals go over to help:
take my hand,
here is water,
help is coming,
what can i do?
and something swelled within me, and i could not bear to look away, to take my gaze elsewhere.
after i left with peppermint tea in my hands for my postprandial sip, there was a man on eighth avenue whose packages had fallen off the trolley he was using to cart, and i have never seen a smile so big, so toothy
as i did when the woman took her headphones out and began to lift the cardboard back onto the cart.
today is hot and sweaty and
and
the city is not as brutal as i thought it to be.
10001
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am i allowed to say that under his gaze i feel like gold
a marvelous creature
a thing set apart from them all,
something meant to be loved well.
he crafts an addiction in me
builds a bridge between before and after
a stranger that is ease,
the sound of rain on the windshield,
the sinking of toes into warm earth.
this sweet-candy of a gaze
that falls as if i am magnificence to watch
as if i have not been loved too hard, or bent too easily.
this sweet gaze
that says
i am worth far more than all of the breaking.
last year and yesterday and nothing in-between
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a low ache throttles beneath my ribcage
my fumbling hands so unsure
of how to navigate the waters of
just a friend.
the tears come easy, pushing through confusion
to weather my pillow again.
i don’t know how to ask how
when he is so sure
of it all.
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burning lash line
cries erupt deep within my belly
and didn't stop till the tears ran out
yowza
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i'd be lying if i said
you make me speechless
the truth is you make my
tongue so weak it forgets
what language to speak in
rupi kaur, milk and honey
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I think you still love me, but we can’t escape the fact that I’m not enough for you.
haruki marukami
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too much too soon
carefully laid bricks, years pushed through, days simply existed in.
23
47
91
351
a wall that in 2.5 seconds is taken down
all 351 gone
because different is believed to be true.
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the donut shop man
the lines cut deep into his skin
the bitter beauty of life’s penmanship
carved the parchment.
his hands shake delicately
as if the trembles are the metronome of his breath,
synchronized with heartbeat,
in time with muscle activity.
22º F is met with a spring parka
and worn through grey sweatpants,
an empty to-go mug of coffee he holds in his right hand,
that too shakes delicately.
he stands there, looking for someone,
the entire time I’m in the donut shop.
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pews & cream colored bathrooms
my precious boy
here in this pew, remembering
kneeling before your phantom
the phantom with its spine curved at the top,
long fingers reaching out
“please”
once we were there
and whispering
shallow promises of every day i will
forever i’ll be
yours.
and i’m sitting in a pew
and I tip the wine towards the back of my throat
and i gasp
these are merely visions
tendrils
of that which was
but will never be.
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a weary coming
it is a weariness
that burns right through my t-shirt
a quaking, shifting weariness
that is penned between the orders of brooklyn and chianti,
ask me what i did yesterday, i will say the same thing as i did then
“too much.”
where are the arms
and the heart
and the voice.
when do i get to come home and unzip the ache off of me and betray the outside world and pour my skin upon his.
when.
where.
how.
to my someday, on this october day - you are all i can think about. come home.
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She called him Thomas. Something about the way his tail curled around her leg the day they met shifted something inside her belly, like chamomile tea when her body ached. Thomas, a name of strength and stolidity, for a Russian blue cat that came to her haven off the streets. He was her absolute everything. The one who would curl his body beside her own every evening, even when she soured her tongue towards him.
She liked to tell people that she had a gypsy heart, but truth was she only knew one place like the back of her hand: Provence. The old beauty and fresh flowers and an abundant charm: Blanche thrived here, her Russian blue cat and she.
Her days were like clockwork. Mornings were filled with Proust and espresso, with salmon and capers on bagels. She baked bread for the new neighbors two houses down, and biked around town stopping to see Maisy and Racquel and drink a cup of tea. On the way home, she’d stop by the market for cheese, bread, olives, tomatoes ripe with sun, roses and eucalyptus that smelled like earth. Her basket was always filled,
Evenings were for Chardonnay and Sinclair Lewis, for charcuterie boards and the jazz record from the 20’s. For the crackling fire, and warm baths sprinkled with rose petals from last week’s bouquet. They were for peppermint essential oil on her wrists, and a steaming mug of sleepytime tea beside her bed, and for lying awake until her dreams pulled her away from her house on the corner, with the garden of lavender, and the cat she called Thom.
She filled her days because she couldn’t fill her heart.
Because his medicine remained in the second cabinet on the left in her bathroom. Because when she poured wine, she did it for 2 and drank both herself. Because her sole companion was a cat named Thomas and not the man she knew as Sam.
Blanche Fisher was alone. And I suppose it never stopped feeling like it.
Blanche and Thom Cat
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it's you can't you see?
i've sworn off your name
the idea of your arms
and the peace of your presence
but here i am
and it has been 3/4 of a year
and i'm tossing around the taste of you against my molars
and i have to promise myself that in one of my tomorrows it'll all make sense
but i end up thinking that maybe
i let the good one go.
that's a lie
that's a lie
you weren't good
but I loved you.
but it did not equal your love for you.
hurting tonight. trying to remember that we can grow better separate. instead i’m just remembering. shoot.
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numb
how do you tell the molecules hovering beneath your surface
that the way you’re feeling should not be felt
that the eyelashes you blew away
the stars you spoke to
were wishes spent on a useless thing
that your hands were coaxing a dying flower
asking it to bloom
to thrive
(the thing on my hands i called stardust
just the ashes of a death thing)
you are a question mark i will keep writing
a sentence i will never understand
a metaphor continually defined
a skeleton that existed before the body.
you are nothing to me now
and everything to me then.
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