Just Kristin

God damn those who com­pli­ment,
     who pay more than face value,
     who coat con­de­scen­sion with love
       or love with flat­tery,
     who would have one believe,
     who ele­vate with a boost rather than a basis,
     who have hands cal­loused from applause,
     who inspire the wing­less to try to soar -
       push them from the nest, even -
     and who smile con­sol­ingly when they sweep up the pieces…
Let me, instead, be dis­par­aged, O Lord.
Let me live low, on all fours,
And deaf
So that my hope never learns to fly
But rides on my back with under­de­vel­oped, crip­pled wings,
Singing song I can­not hear
As I lope, howl­ing, toward the moon.
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The clouds pass, preg­nant, gray and low.
They drag their stretch-marked bel­lies slow
Enough to soothe the eerie glow
Of sunset-burn
Against the moun­tains, row on row,
Each one in turn.

Good mid­wife moon works hard to calm
Their thun­der­ous labors with her palm
Against each brow — this frosty balm
Relieves their pain -
And, gust­ing wind-lamaze, each mom
Gives birth to rain.

My muse plays rough -
He does not come when prayed to,
And beg­ging makes him stall,
Delight­ing in my poetic angst
Over unfin­ished home­work;
I am made instead to wait,
Head cocked, The Vic­tor Poet
Wait­ing for Her Master’s Voice.
He binds my feet
And wields a meter-stick
To check my mea­sure.
He ties me to a form
And, stand­ing back, scans
My rhythm & the flow of my lines,
Adding, in repair, with a slap
Or tug of hair, an ini­tial
Exclam­a­tory “O!“
Should he feel my end–
Rhyme lacks color or glow,
He warms it with swats
Of a the­saurus,
And even when I am allowed
To roam unbound and free,
He will, at his whim,
Cut a switch and add
Lines, in cou­plets or qua­trains,
To under­score my mean­ing.
He has even enjambed
His dic­tion into the whole
Of my cre­ation
To give it all a blush­ing tint
Or a hint of groan­ing prosedy.
Even now — ow! — I sub­mit,
Gladly, to his les­son
That art is slave to both
Pain and love.

Begin­ning with the viola,
I mas­tered the unpop­u­lar
Friend­less instru­ments
And my singing voice devel­oped
Both range and blend.
I was never with­out music,
Never lacked a posi­tion
Sup­port­ing, har­mo­niz­ing,
Strength­en­ing, length­en­ing,
Cov­er­ing gaps -
Always a cho­ris­ter
Never a diva…
Now my shrink tells me
That in order to sur­vive,
I need to learn to, and
Learn to love to,
Solo.

He dodges her
Wet-lipped and cold-nosed
Kisses
Like he dodges
Wind-tossed and ice-cold
Rain­drops,
Spooked by the sim­ple,
Shared goal
Of these mete­oric show­ers
Of land­ing
Wher­ever they will.

The dog buried
A slice of cheese
In the back yard
Today,
Afraid, per­haps,
That I may
Regret the gift
and take it back.
Silly dog.
My child buried
Her make-up
And pop cd’s
Under socks
In a drawer,
Afraid, no doubt,
That her unique,
Un-mom-like
Bits would cost
Her my love
And accep­tance.
Silly child.
You buried
Your secrets and
Dreams in your
Mind and heart,
Afraid, per­haps,
That they may,
Like bogey­men,
Scare peo­ple away.
Silly you.
I bury my fears
Under smiles
And wiles
And the needs
Of oth­ers,
Hop­ing they will
Com­post
Into some­thing
A bit more useful…

A girl, a box, a cat and a tree,
Across from the tem­ple
Under fin­ger­painted, needle-strewn skies -
A sim­ple, sun-dappled urban atom -
Pro­ton girl,
Plas­tic pur­ple barettes barely vis­i­ble
In her wind-knotted chest­nut tresses,
Her back fros­tily fused
To the neutral-grey neu­tron
Of the cir­cuit box
Whose cement seat she shared,
Together, a nucleus orbited
In mean­der­ing loops
By a patch­work cat
Dyed as many earthy hues
As curiosity-killed past lives,
And in slower cir­cles
By a young tree
On its way to state­li­ness.
On each of its cycles,
The cat would pass
Close enough to col­lide,
Slowed by fric­tion
Of whiskered cheek
Against booted foot,
Of fin­gers
On ears and spine and tail,
And pro­pelled away again
By the girl’s sly, failed attempts
To grab and hold,
To hug and cud­dle,
To effect fis­sion
Of flesh and fur.
Once, she cap­tured him
Just long enough
To draw red Sharpie rose
Around a scar on his paw,
A smelly, chem­i­cal solu­tion
Designed to heal
An already-scarred wound…
A hiss, a kick
And a much longer orbit later,
The cat,
Tir­ing of his own aloof­ness,
Came to rest for
A nap’s-length moment
On her lap.
The tree moved slightly
Counter-clockwise
And smil­ing, sighed.

breath­ing fero­cious per­fume &
smear­ing elab­o­rate lather
a flood of breasts &
a thou­sand sweat dia­monds
drink
  lie
    kill
      soar
sur­rounded by for­est shad­ows
pierce the deli­cious vel­vet moment
  and then
when the sleep angel dies
peace comes

by your lus­cious sis­ter­god­dess
(made with Jeff’s mag­netic poetry)

Close your well-thumbed missals -
I would be so worn with study.
Dis­perse the Sab­bath ser­vices
And come to me, instead, in ones
Or twos or groups of more,
And recline upon my belly,
Rest your head on my chest.
Pray to me with breath and
Heart­beat and tears and sweat,
Wor­ship me with fin­gers and toes
And tongue and eyes and nose.
Your paeans and ser­mons are
Beau­ti­ful, blessed billet-doux,
Don’t get me wrong, but words
Of ado­ra­tion, whis­pered or sung,
Can never draw us together
Like your hands caress­ing my bark,
My leaves tan­gled in your hair,
My sand fill­ing your shoes,
Your flu­ids bedew­ing my grass,
Your sighs min­gling with my breezes,
My earthy musk flar­ing your nos­trils,
My salts and spices fla­vor­ing your lips,
My stars and sun­sets light­ing your eyes…
Come out from behind your stained-glass,
Defrock, peel off your Sun­day best
And meet me in the moon­lit woods,
Lie down on the moist, warm banks
Of my lap­ping, undu­lat­ing creeks
And take me, make me feel wor­shipped.
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A leafy wil­low branch so long
it trails on the ground
writ­ing runes in the wind.
A chilled apple, warm only
on the sur­face from the
heat of my hand.
A tear that falls, cool and
wet from my cheek to the join
of your neck and shoul­der.
A song you can’t get rid of,
that stays in your mind but
doesn’t make you crazy.
An unex­pected touch, a press
on the small of your back
with the flat of my hand.
An ici­cle hang­ing off the eaves
that wakes you with sun prisms,
col­or­ful stabs to the eye.
A photo of me from when I was
two rather than one, before
I became one again, some­times.
A whis­per of your name, close to
your ear, the breath as warm as
the name’s effects on my heart.
A tiny sliver-slice of moon,
just enough for dessert after
a meal of ocean and thighs.
A par­cel of land with a house
for you to haunt with as many
nude ghosts as you can summon.