This one is the last one I write for her I thought she was someone else Her colors used to be golden Now they are gray with loads of black It’s never a woman’s fault Except sometimes it is I thought she was innocent and dark The truth is, she speaks too loudly on the phone And does not like silence at all She buries her head before death Untangles her hair when there are no knots Only she knows the lament of her heart A child kissed too soon Undressed under fall trees Hidden weeds in locked garages This is how the truth unravels Under earth and unkept minds It becomes untouchable In the lines of poetic injustice.
I came out of a Modern Literature class with Dickens under my arms folded page at the part of the story that you don’t want to stop at I kept walking down the street imagining cellos playing in my mind I went to my favorite second-hand bookstore And there you were I picked you up and took you home snuggled you to sleep hugged you on the bus in the bathroom in the living room under the apple tree on Sunday afternoon I placed you on the bookshelf for a while but I knew you felt lonely like a violin waiting for your turn in the song I let you sit for a while absorbed your words as they floated in my brain the fog evaporated. . When I was 20, I picked you up again took you with me to class walked with you up Mont Royal Park sat on the grass and consumed you once again I wrote some poems with my old typewriter but no one read them lovers did not know that time changed between seasons. When I turned 30 I caressed you again neglected you you stayed next to me for years when I moved again, I left you in a box I don’t remember the age or the time but I remember reading you with a fresh eye like trumpets blew around my mind Ella singing in the back I keep reading your words but I am disappointed now I let the person in and let go of the poet I did the ultimate wicked act I understood the poem and killed the poet. You broke my heart More than a man could I did not think you had it in you. (for Anne Sexton) Lady My heritage matters not I was meant to have worms on my skin my calling is death I can accept every brute as you lay there reading my poems in bed you paid for my letters my afternoon naps I heard God many times choked on men’s poems sometimes my silence asked for all the words you gave to others when I think of the cemetery visits the tears of how people wanted to drink me in a cup of tea Pretend they know me I have had my share of purity insanity mockery I was proud of all the hidden poems my vulnerability never stopped me It took a man, my father, a woman, my mother to teach me how to not do Myself and when I had to kill all of them yet none of them the voices drowned for a season but I cannot be anyone’s war I brew my own tea start over tap the last poem flip the last page of my manuscript I imagine for a brief rainy season how you would feel when you realize all my darkness is inside you or when you blow out my candle as I no longer wait for your approval.
This morning I made my sage tea, lit a candle, rubbed my crystals and watched the flame sway quickly. I knew it was her. She came to me a few times. Once she told me about vampires. I had already written my paranormal romance novel. She did not speak, but I felt her words. Girls like us, we’re beyond sensitive. We walk in the sea. We notice all the wildflowers in the cracks of the sidewalk. We touch trees and say good morning to birds. The photos on our phones are the same sunset in one-hundred different dates. We already know the truth, but let our blood get sucked, anyway. Girls like us break all the hearts of all the good men. We want dark hearts with bursts of light. We want the same lover in every lifetime. We want to believe in vampires. We want pain engulfed in a poem.
We want to keep writing poetry for the men and women who leave us so we have something to say.
You are epic with words you’re the royal queen of poetry you’re Plath there’s no one like you your writing is Mozart there will only be one of you a rare colored tulip no matter how we try to emulate the sounds you’re the royal queen of poetry to write what no woman had before you did it you made a poetry book every man envied Your gentle heart could not take so much pain you wrote up until the end you’re the royal queen of poetry It’s no one’s business, really being a famous poet like you Everyone thinks they know you your vulnerability your sadness your mental illnesses When the secrets lie with you. Bio from Christina's website http://christinastrigas.com/ Christina Strigas is trilingual, raised by Greek immigrants, and has written five poetry books. Love & Vodka, has been featured by CBC Books in, “Your Ultimate Canadian Poetry List: 68 Poetry Collections Recommended by you.” drought: a poem by Christina Strigas (from her new book) A Poetry Showcase for Christina Strigas -new poetry & republished poetry
Wonderful! Powerful words.
Thank you! These are wonderful! Very relatable.
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