#napowrimo 2023

[dobaara]

questions to ask the other me by S.R.

napowrimo day 3 using @mercuriian 's prompts (x): ‘the other me’ (description in alt)

[schuylerpeck]

27/30: write a poem risky enough to make you blush

schuylerpeck / instagram: hiitssky

[torrentialmonsoon]

we converge like the teals and turquoises of the caribbean sea; we rise and fall like the tsunamis inside me.

[salovie]

“Sleep” is the thing with thorns -

That blooms along the path -

And sways away when I reach and pray -

To pluck it in my grasp -

And when at last - I touch it - pricks

And stings along my palm -

Is such a rest worth all these tricks -

Should I keep furthering Along?

I’ve heard it is Important -

But so hard to obtain -

And tougher yet - to hold on tight,

Without fight - to Dream again.

[amalgamationink]

I knew it when your house bloomed. When the front step shifted from a held breath to a threshold.

The stasis had settled in, years-deep, sprawling through each room until the air went brittle, until (oops) it gnawed upon the bones.

And yet from day to day I watched you push it back. The rooms began to breathe again.

In the low light, you went shadow-kissed, the hollows of you retreating— but when I squinted to see, you rolled up your sleeves to replace the bulbs. The lightning in my chest could’ve lit the room itself.

I could cry for all your quiet concessions: a softer chair, a proper bed, the kitchen cracking an eye when I stirred a coffee at the counter.

On the last visit (before they stopped being visits, before the admitted defeat and the mutual resignation to the rest of our lives together) I slipped you a handful of buttercups that had begun to cautiously regain footing in the yard.

What’s this? you said, and you hadn’t quite resurrected the house enough for vases, so I tucked one into your lapel as you pushed another behind my ear.

A housewarming present, and I kissed your teeth as the home you’d built with me in mind heaved a contented sigh. Someone finally lives here.

[wheatfieldspoet]

grief, in doses

denial

i think we could have saved you.

anger

they said you hadn’t had an appetite for ten days. ten days. and they didn’t think to call, didn’t think that their pride and stubborn belief in conspiracy should be immaterial in this moment. they just let you sit in your chair and let you fade. i gritted my teeth through the revelation of this sorrowful mystery, biting back the urge to tell them they don’t deserve to cry. they let this happen. they can keep their fucking ivermectin, i want my Lola back.

bargaining

can we go back? please, i had no idea how short the time was. i’m not asking for much, only one more walk—you don’t even have to say anything. just let me lead you down the stairs, one hand on the rail and the other in mine; let me feel the shifting weight of your aliveness before you step foot into your black car. let me have one more embrace to breathe in the scent of your perfume. let me keep your lipstick stain on my cheek. let me say goodbye, but not before giving me the chance to plead for Him not to take you yet. not yet. i’d ask for not ever, but i know that’s impossible, so please—not yet.

depression

when the weight of remembering comes, all i can do is cry. but i’ll choose to overdose on memory any day, to carry everything with me because i’m afraid i’ll forget where i put them down. the color purple, violet, but also garnet. butterflies. poker chips. the queen of hearts. banana rebosado. chocolate cake. ube. durian. a tin can of crackers, a letter opener next to it. the sound of a grandfather clock. “bésame mucho” on the magicsing. rings with large stones that never fit my fingers right but you let me play with them anyway. your hands, always soft. an eyebrow pencil for that time you realized you filled only one brow in, but not until after we were walking around the mall, one of your arches brown and the other grayed. you were graceful in your embarrassment—even if you could never look less than beautiful. i laughed about this with mom recently, and we both burst into tears after the first ha.

anger

i’m ashamed to share a bloodline with some of the men in our family. they survived wars and revolutions but couldn’t bear to plan your memorial. so they left it all to your youngest daughter and i had to be the one to tell my own mother she didn’t have to be strong. i had to feel her break in my arms.

denial

things that don’t make sense: to talk about you in the past tense; to say only Lolo and not Lolo-and-Lola; to see you in pictures and realize we can never take another; that your jewelry and perfume bottles and makeup are exactly as you left them on your dresser; that your perfectly paired blouses and satin camisoles are still hanging in your closet; that one day your things will no longer smell like you.

depression

i remember how it brought you joy to watch me sing and dance; there’s plenty documentation of this on old film, your laughter and applause underscoring the britney spears. you never knew it, but there was a time i was terrified to sing at family events—but i would for you. “moon river” was a song i learned from you. dad played the guitar and i sang to you the whole time. you kept your eyes on me, smiling as you sang the words back. just for me. that night, i made a playlist of songs i could sing with you the next time i got a chance. i didn’t get one. but somewhere in between your novena days, i found the garageband file where you, Lolo, mom, and i sang “somethin’ stupid” for one of your anniversaries. i isolated our vocals together and wept for an hour.

bargaining

can i visit you past the veil and keep no promises? if i am told to walk ahead and not look back, i will give a non-committal nod, knowing full well i love you too much to lose that chance. i’m sorry for all the time i took for granted. i hadn’t even thought there would be a last one.

denial

i am a child again and i am walking with you hand in hand in a field of butterflies. they float above our heads, creating a halo around yours. i giggle in wonder—so pretty!—and name every color i see and can feel the fondness through the warmth of your squeeze. you loosen your hold and nudge me forward gently, telling me to chase them. my delight rings through the air as i skip through the grass. then i think: this is a moment i should be sharing with you. i turn around, only to find a flock of purplewings where you once stood. i reach out my hands to catch one, but they flutter away in a burst.

acceptance

i wake up.

— jade a.

escapril day 10: drug of choice

bonus prompt - @darlingwendy: The Kubler-Ross model, or the five stages of grief, is often thought of as a linear experience. The reality is much different. Playing with a non-linear narrative, write a poem that grieves.

[lavenderlhymes]

danger whispers

from west of the hills

along a small lakeside village

the air hangs heavy

with earth and moss and

petrichor, promising a spillage

verdant summits blaze

amber and maroon as shadows

creep close enough to pillage

—april 24. western // @nosebleedclub

[lipstickonmugs]

I can't wait till morning

The sun behind the curtains

Our quiet breathing

A boiling kettle

Hot water hitting ceramic

That first taste

And it's not even noon

The day is still just beginning

Monday is out of reach

The first cool breeze

It's gentle

soft

so

fragile

Noon comes

And goes

And you enjoy

What the afternoon has to offer

Cherish the stars

But also

Just waiting

For morning

...

b.t.a. Napowrimo 2023, Day #12

[acelessthan3]

It wouldn't be April

without a poem about

that Itch

circular hands

red rice balls at the intersection

a trio of spring robins in hand

It wouldn't be spring

without tired forearms,

a Bend and Snap™ that would make

Jennifer Coolidge proud,

dirt from the sidewalk

underneath my fingernails.

Every year like the cherry blossoms

and daffodils

like a ball finally caught

after hanging at the apex

the perfect projectile arch

where forces reach their equilibrium

and gravity reasserts it's dominance

[asthadwivedi]

[dobaara]

I once fell in love with a boy from Paris, who worked in a funeral parlor, selling sad flowers by S.R.

napowrimo day 12 using @mercuriian 's prompts (x): ‘(city flowers)’ (title inspired by the painting of faye wei wei with the same name)

[schuylerpeck]

15/30: write a poem from the perspective of a ghost.

schuylerpeck / instagram: hiitssky

[torrentialmonsoon]

i love the way your scent always fills the entirety of a room; sprinkle of pomegranate tea with a hint of smoked honey woods. i love the way your scent blankets me softly, so now i burn candles named after you. - i love naming things after you.

[salovie]

The robins in the rain rejoice

At flooded lawns and thunder’s voice

That drove the worms to open air:

A feast laid out on sidewalk’s snare.

With careful steps I jog the path,

Avoid the storm’s squirmy aftermath;

I leap and prance, a laugh slips free

As my run becomes choreography.

I’m sorry, worms, for your sad plight,

But I’m sure my jig is quite the sight.

[rustbeltjessie]

Name me. I’ll open. My chest, the wind—easterly. Call me skirt and fly-trap, poison lilac. Polluted riverbank. Call me river, Kinnickinnic. Trash-fish. Gathering-place. I’ll show you. The freights, the tracks. The androgyne. Dark beneath. Girl sailor. Ghost river. Bandit boy. Who played pirate? I’ll show you this—mermaid. This river-dark. This wind.

Jessie Lynn McMains, from an as-yet-untitled poem (NaPoWriMo 2023, Day 17)

[amalgamationink]

a eulogy for my son, who will not hear it

I would say “you’ll understand when you’re older”, but I suppose therein lies the rub. I would explain myself— tell you the grown-up truths of regret and shame and survival, and the fact of the matter being that all children are inevitably failed by their parents so, forgive me, but you’re lucky that I got it out of the way so quickly and made a spectacle to boot— but I should have done that when you still had ears. And anyway it’s rude to talk with your mouth full. Something else I would have taught you if I’d only had the time.

If it’s any consolation, they will not look kindly on me. I will be the monster who consumed his son, who knelt in a bloom of copper and salt and tore the babe to shreds. There is little room for nuance when I am stuffed so full of flesh. Did you know that it was you or me? Parenthood is about sacrifices, and I couldn’t bear to lay myself upon the altar. Forgive me. They are welcome to their judgement. When they discover the knives in their backs, gifts from their precious lambs, they will understand. Or they won’t. I won’t ask.

It was you or me, you know. You had my eyes, my mouth, my hunger. These were gifts from my father, once, and he fell at my hands for them. Blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh, forgive me — I could not play his part for you. Your gifts were mine to give, and mine to repossess. The revolution ends with me. I have done what I must to survive you. Part of you will survive with me, resting somewhere in the caverns of my gut. We will share the blame. You couldn’t help your birthright. I couldn’t let you keep it. Believe it or not, this hurt me more than it hurt you.

I picture you serene. Better than picturing you headless, bloodied, between my fingers. In the depths of me, there is a quiet peace, drowning the sense memory of the snap of your spine. The fruit of my loins had tender skin, and it burst ripe and sweet between my teeth. Even in my grief, my mouth waters. They will say that my consumption has cost me the right to mourn, but nothing else can hurt you now. I have saved you a lifetime of little agonies. It was violence as an act of love, a shield from harm. It was you or me. It had to be me. You understand. I know you do. Forgive me.

(inspired by Goya's painting, Saturn Devouring His Son).