Author Archives: kimtnt

Crown

my hair holds memory,
i know this because

i cut my own hair today




20151002_1838021772227513.jpg

her, at ten.




as i held the ends

in my hands

i said

 

did you touch the Merced with me and my boy?

i said,

do you remember my father?

and my other precious loss?

i said,

do you remember the first dog?

i said,

were you here when

i still loved

and was loved?

i said,

you were there when my mother was so near death’s door

i said,

and when i found and lost,

and lost and found, my Self again?

smiles
sighs
cries
laughs
rage
wail
and
song

i still have possessions from all those times

and places

but no skin,

my skin long shed, my bone resorbed

and renewed over and over

but my long hair is still me from many years ago

that is why hair is so precious,

i thought,

this is the genesis

of what i have always

mistook as phobia

but no,

i know today

that

physical memory is held particularly, and only, in my hair

more than Samsonian

or vanity

or femininity

my long hair

is

my body
my health
my energy
my sensation
my emotion
my years
my identity
my essence

thank you

for growing

for remembering

for showing

for staying

for flowing

for tangling

for blowing

for graying

for glowing

for floating

for knowing

with me

all these years

 

no more cuts
without ceremony

and
i promise
i will never agree to lose you

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One-derlust

I go weeks
months
even



without noting
your presence
or absence

but then
there You are
in my awareness again,
wandering
around in me

and then
there I am
wondering
what You are
or aren’t
[going to be]
to me


mason

the art

I’m conjuring

creating

constructing

may

hurt

you
but

it is

not[hing]

for

about

[to] [do] with

you

 
where I am
you cannot be

where I stand
there is no room

where I go
you cannot come

what I know
you cannot know

the space in me you long ago preempted
to over-fill with you

and later

cut,
carved
and
hollowed out

I’ve begun filling and patching with

my Self

by myself

and my mortar is nearly set


Open

I walk bare

out in the open

on borrowed land|stolen

to be returned to the people, to all be-ings, to them

with my bones or ash interred, one day

the Sun, Moon, Rain, Wind, Clouds, Sky and Stars
kiss me at all hours

did you see me open up
this Autumn?

after a Summer spent crying,
wet, yet fruitless

spent Spring wading into lies instead of soft blossoms and new grass
Winter approaches, maybe the frost will kill this disease,
for good

For now, I bathe

nearly naked in sunshine, cold rainstorms, wetland pools and moonlight

unapologetically

|out in the open|

unabashedly

baptising
my face,
hair,
and eyes,
my breasts
vulva
and legs,
my lips,
throat,
spine,
and my wild heart

ceremonially, first
with wine, like Magdalene, anointing and anointed,
in the name of the mother, Sun and holy ghosts
|cabernet henna|
then, with rainwater from the willow’s edge, like Ophelia,
lying in the woodland and meadow, flooded
to cleanse or drown [to be, or not to be]
in the name of the Moon

|I ponder the stone cistern laden with glacial deposits and ruminant bones|

the woodland is abundant with new mushroom, new overnight growth

[puhpowee]

the hint of ancient circles supplants my judgment with instinct
and overrides decorum with new delights
| and old delights, revisited |

an aged grapevine is rooted deep, climbing, trailing, snaking
hidden in plain sight, everywhere
and I’ve intuited It as Ol’ Scratch,
I take a hatchet to quell Its influence, here

You,
Your windows are not true eyes
Your lamps are not enlightenment

So, bless the dark

of the night

of the country night sky

And the Moonset

of my moon

it’s been decades,
but
this place wants to birth or impregnate me,

and I want that too
i want it to

|I come here and open up|

 

 


Violets: a true loss story

The violets that remind you of your dear
great grandmother’s dining room
on Oakdale Avenue
African violets in purple, lilac, lavender, and pink on a plant stand near a dark window by the olive green telephone on the wall

The Violets that remind you of your first, truest love’s breath
Lavender-perfumed chalky candy squares
Choward’s Mints in dark purple foil sleeves
from the corner store

/

But you were not one of their truest loves

//

the once-loving matriarch forgot you when the child stolen from El Salvador arrived
a baby smuggled across nations
yet, this was not a rescue mission for an orphan, no, this boy had a living mami

instead, it was a long distance shopping trip for a wom[b][an] whose insides were spoiled by lust and greed
For one who coveted, but then drowned in the role of motherhood
yet she still swam deep in men,
floated in luxurious possessions;

the old woman was no longer your “grammaw”
but the boy’s “Mimi” – solely, wholly his

she once accused you,
of lifting $20 from her purse on the night you ran away from home
& snuck in her house
to
pee

an unfathomable indictment
while her [other] [grand]daughter
poached a baby, kited checks, pocketed jewelry and defrauded the Chicago Housing Authority
Mimi was silent, or complicit all those times

You, on the other hand, never stole a coin, or a child – or a permanent part of anyone’s heart

in 1999,
you still went to her home, anointed her hands and face with oil and tenderness,
preparing her living body for the
grave,
while telling her you loved her so much, truthfully.
You went because you knew
Instinctively
that she was dying alone
her violets were wilting fast
she foreseeing her ghostly humiliation before the coroner’s eyes
violets thirsty and unpruned from the neglect of her intentionally chosen beloveds and heirs – those who shared

her house and purse and heart

She died the very next day

///

The Violets that remind you of Him,
your first love,
of his breath and kisses in a dark gangway or anywhere hidden
that sweet ingredient imbued in the deep amalgam of his scent
a pheromonic candy –

veritably, His signature

His seduction

yet those same Violets remind Him only
of his first, unrequited, true love
he, pining for a brown-eyed, olive-skinned , spaniard, brunette girl
who virginally metamorphised into a pregnant, 16 year-old sacred cow
She only loved boys with slicked-back, jet black hair, the ones who wore silky shirts and baggies
she parted her lips and hips wide O P E N
but only for boys with names like Erasmo, Jorgey, Hector

She made Him godfather to the baby boy instead of the father or stepfather
He wanted to be,
despite his bended knee, promises,
and all the begging, lusting, cuckolding, and undying loving

Silly [yt] rabbit.

He still scours corner and liquor stores for the rare Violets to send to Her by mail, innocently asking the substitute “her” for postage, a box, and oh, some packing tape?

The first Her is slick, sick, broke(n) and old

but She is still the most beautiful of face, skin, voice and heart – to Him

He keeps ancient yarn ribbons from Her hair in a treasure box in their now broken home

photos of their adventures and of their Golden Boy texted to Her in the moment – instantly sent to the Gulf Coast –
to garner Her sunny emoji smiles and shallow sentiments xoxoxo ♥️♥️♥️😊🙂😘

While the substitute her bares her real teeth and her cloudy emotions in the moments lost;

“smile — you’re joyless”; insult to injury

now, she just looks and laughs
at the pathetic rabbit – holding his smartphone
a pseudo-Nicholas Sparks romantic with Her,
but He forgot the poem you wrote Him just last year, on his birthday – Agape

////

To the one dead and to the one living :
Violets remind me of you

/////

(Pray that ash takes its place, soon
Or that I relocate in space, soon)