Poems From This Morning



If they told you
that you can’t go home
they lied

because that place is still
underneath the pavement
and the tires
and the signs
with their sun-bleached messages

that said:
this isn’t a place for you
they lied

this has always been your place
and it always will be

underneath the bones
and the branches
the moss like ghosts
and the tides like a heartbeat
as slow and steady
as your very own history


I Need You

Do I need you
to be here with me
to bear witness in the morning
to this steam coming off
of the wooden boat
that I named for a hand
and a deity, untitled

Do I need you to see me
in this new, green light
to touch me
and to make me real
under your fingertips?

Or do I just need this
these birds
this dog
this cup of yesterday’s coffee
with no one to ask me
to make something better
for them

I don’t need you.

Still, I wonder how
the birds might sing

to see us

and how that song might
sound like laughter
if we were holding hands

Then again,
if I were holding your hand
I wouldn’t be writing this
…and I don’t know
whether that’d be
any great loss
if my head were on your chest
…and my every word
was breath
and joy
to ring in my ears
like a song to the gods
and all the ghosts
that want us to be loved

Do I need you here
to watch the world
change with me?


Will the world change the same way without you here with me on morning’s like this?



One thought on “Poems From This Morning

  1. Poem From Last Night


    So I opened up this book
    full of words that mean
    the same thing as other words
    but different
    because no two words are exactly the same
    otherwise there wouldn’t be two of them

    ..and there are all these words that start with ‘h’
    my eyes land on ‘hit’ first
    because it has the most entries
    the most meanings
    the first group of which
    are violent
    and I can’t even read them
    because they make me flinch
    because that is the way
    I read things
    though I am comforted
    by the fact
    that all of those words
    have other meanings, too


    …and May Day
    is the day after tomorrow
    and you bet your ass
    there will be arrests
    and lips will be kissed
    and some kid across town
    will probably die
    because he shot too much
    just like this friend
    and like that friend
    and the kid with the nice shoes
    saying, “I just want a little hit.”
    …just the other day.

    …and across the page
    there was ‘historic’
    and I figured ‘hysteria’
    was just a page or two away,
    somewhere after 183
    and ‘home’

    I just got home
    just a few hours ago
    I got home from home
    some place by the river
    to the rain in the mountains
    and I didn’t spit on the ground like I’d planned to
    not in spite…
    but in reverence,
    or no
    just shut your mouth

    …I tell myself this all the time
    and I wonder
    how many women are being told to shut up right now?

    April 28, 2013, 9:04pm
    @faithghost: How many people are being told to “…shut up…” right now?
    …sent from my handheld device…
    April 28, 2013, 9:04pm
    @faithghost: “…keep talking…”
    …sent from my handheld device…

    I didn’t howl at home.

    I didn’t write either. I drew some pictures, 1/2 hearted and distracted…second-guessing myself and thinking about
    how I had been trying
    to draw a horse in that house
    for 30 years
    …and how I hadn’t
    gotten much better
    after all
    that time

    I looked at the clouds
    and caught them in forms
    suggesting this
    at the edges
    and that in the light
    I didn’t take pictures
    because I resent the fact
    that I feel like I have to
    and because I know
    that isn’t true

    I was the girl in the fish house
    with the big black bars
    across her back
    and the small hand
    held in her own

    …and when I think of anyone
    wanting to hurt me
    or scorn me
    I want to say:
    “Look at my palms, motherfucker. Do you know who the fuck I am? My name is Faith, and this was my home you sorry assed rednecked military stepchild of the WalMart colonization.”
    gang rape
    double lanes
    train tracks…

    “…and don’t you ever fuck with me.”

    The boy who gave me the wings on my palms was a preacher’s son and he died in his sleep
    three years clean time.

    So what can I do
    when I’ve driven so far today
    gone from breeze to rain
    coast to mountain
    talking to the kids
    about this
    about that
    keeping the miles passing
    with one part of my brain
    churning churning
    like it does
    like it does
    …and the wretched little places where the soldiers hid
    and the ancestors were hung
    and the Indians died
    and the swamp got filled up

    “The water’s brown because of the cypress,” my father told my son, pointing at the wake.
    “It’s got a chemical called tannin in it…”

    I just smiled, because it hadn’t yet occurred to me that the river may as well be blood, for all the iron sunk in it
    in forms and figures
    tossed into the waves

    …and so I didn’t write
    because I hadn’t quite thought of all the things I was thinking about…about Timucuans 7 feet tall, all dead within 3 years of the horses being gifted in exchange for warfare…about why there were so many rays washed up on the beach, so many dead animals…about why I hadn’t been home in 7 years and what those empty rooms meant to me, why they still smelled the same.
    I told myself, before we left the mountains, that I wouldn’t cry, that it wouldn’t be traumatic…that it would be healing. So, maybe, it somehow was.
    What was it healing?
    Oh, you know.
    I could write a whole book about what led to those two days and why they were significant in the span of history. I could tell a story about my daughter walking beside a feral horse, the descendant of those gifted mares and stallions from Spain, and how the people stopped to take a picture of the rusted cars,
    the heaps of metal,
    that used to be
    The newest

    So, I am home, back in the mountains
    and I haven’t even bothered
    to load the pictures
    onto the computer
    because I just relive
    …and, god, to remember everything everyone says to me:

    “Would you like a bag with that?”
    …said the man with the delicate hands,
    standing behind the counter
    not thinking twice
    about his life
    and worrying about whether
    the gum goes in
    or stays out…

    “It doesn’t matter,” I told him. “Either way, it doesn’t matter.”

    There are things that I forget, but I remember way too much…

    The woman’s nails were bright yellow. There was a white t-shirt tied to the driver side door handle.

    …and I’ve forgotten
    that I was writing a poem
    that is really a part of book
    that I’ve been forgetting
    to write

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