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Monday, March 15, 2010

Expressio Unius est Exclusio Alterius



Expressio Unius est Exclusio Alterius
(The expression of the one is the exclusion of the other)

It’s too late,
because
you’re already reading this poem,
and it’s too late to say
it’s not a poem,
because I just said it was.

You can hate it or
by extension, me,
but you are reading my poem,
here, right now.
You say, these black characters,
are words, and I say,
it’s a poem.
You begin to believe me,
You begin,
to believe.

Originally Published in Otoliths

Photo Credit River Tabor 

Monday, March 8, 2010

Hands




Smooth hands are suspect.
I love the roughness of your touch,
the way your hands snag my silk blouses.
Sandpaper man, your calluses un-seam me.

I have tortilla-making hands, but don’t make them.
My fingernails have chipped blue polish
from Saturday night, are cut short for typing,
are tattooed with the ink of poems.
My hands touch moonlight on your cheek while you sleep.  

Originally published by The Sierra Nevada Poetry Review

Photo Credit: Stewart Ferebee 

Wednesday, March 3, 2010

Girls and Horses



Girls and Horses

My father’s stone agenda
did not include horses for girls,

or playing pool, or going shirtless
at the age of four, even though

my brothers could. I somehow knew
writing could get me that horse.

A redwood fence contained my world,
so in my backyard I wrote a letter.

Dug a hole with my mother’s
silver serving spoon,

bent to the chore in a crinkled cotton dress,
with my knees in dirt and sun on my neck.

I couldn’t spell,
but felt certain my hieroglyphs

would be deciphered.
Words folded into white paper.

I thought, "when people are buried
they shoot right up to God like bottle-rockets,"

so I planted my letter, shaped a mound,
and placed a handful of dandelions on top.

Photo Credit, Stewart Ferebee