I am mulberry.


Black and red and pale
seems to match beautifully with pink
and I like to wear berry tones
on my eyelids lips face hair
straight through winter & on into spring
accompanied by grey sweaters
that fall past my hands.

I've been having visions of my round self naked in a bathtub.

Lukewarm water plays 'pat a cake' with my hips
as I rotate them first left, then unexpectedly right
while watching breasts float lazily on a soap-filmed surface,
only partially covered.

But the truth is,

( and if I am to write anything that partially matters it must be the truth.  )

The truth is:

I don't like to look at myself unless I'm entertained
by dim light and shadows which make the curves of my belly
the slope of my thghs, the surface imperfections,
a little less repelling and a little more exotic.

The truth is:

For weeks I've been fascinated with the thought
of placing my cigarette's cherry flat
against the plump curves of my calves
each time I sit cross-legged in my favorite peach chair
and attempt to write anything
that is of me.

It's not an obsession.
The thought doesn't consume me
or enfold me
or envelop me
or any other words that hint at
a soon to be developing problem with self-mutilation.

It is more a fleeting momentary inspiration.

I am currently Jackson Pollock
holding his paintbrush just inches above the hardwood floor
wondering if the drizzles and splatters will look as good on my skin
as they do on canvas.

Currently, I am Billie Holiday's misplaced magnolia
trapped on a Sunday dresser somewhere between
berry tone rouge blended especially forcolored folk
and an invitation to sing on Friday night
with a girl from Port Arthur who bellows the blues.


The truth is:

I am none of those great things.

I am not the light nor the stage nor the woman in the song,
nor the poet in the corner watching her words move an audience
to its feet.

And I nver will be.

I am nothing more than a tender hearted girl
who's become accustomed to thick, broken skin,
in love with a creekbank she's come to call mother,
writing poetry to some imaginary emotional listener
who thinks that Prozac is a waste of time
and bipolar or manic or depressive anything
should be replaced with adjectives like

artistic
vivid
eccentric
and so on.

The truth is:

I will never publish my words or see my name scrawled meticulously
on the cover of a hardback, though in my head I've already begun to compose
the dedication.

The truth is:

I am a stored bottle of black currant liqueur,
often felt but never tasted.

Because words, words
just aren't enough
until they're gone.

The truth is:

I'm attempting to make the dying easier.

Yours.  Mine.  His.  Hers.

I'm attempting to make it a little less painful
by coloring Us beautiful and convincing myself
that these moments matter, that these insignificant
fleeting moments of inspiration and connection,
when for two seconds I'm sure I feel the tip of god
brush my shoulder,

really do matter.

The truth is:

I'm attempting to make my love tangible and immortal
by penning rough sketches of this thing called life
and writing to an imaginary emotional listener
who always, in the back of his head, wondered exactly what
mulberry ashes taste like

u n s w e e t e n e d .


The truth is:  We are too busy eating, to taste.