Back in the 808, sigh
Lotus flowers in the Grand Palace, Bangkok
Some thoughts on returning home to Hawaii…
feel free to critique my poem, workshop style. I miss writing poems.
Homecoming
My ocean, please heal the wounds
as they bleed over dissipating words.
I’m afraid there is nothing left to talk about,
no music to hum along to.
But I’ve got friends in Bangkok, yes I’ve
got so many friends in Bangkok-
I used to follow them into
temples like a misplaced shadow,
staring at infused words
written in Thai,
just foreign documents that carry
no meaning, as I interlace my mother’s necklace
between my fingers,
the camera in my pocket
bulging, and they laugh
at the could haves
the should haves
the life lessons I always betray.
This island bears harmful memories
keeping me inside my shell.
But outside,
outside my chamber,
the world says,
here….
here, are your friends,
as the waves crash outside my door, sometimes
flooding the hallway.
Can you hear them knocking at your door?
She will rise if she is careful.
My face carries no wisdom,
only memories of past interactions.
The truth is
that, that I
am buried in debt.
And I am sorry.
Sorry and afraid that I owe everyone something, somehow…
So…
Keep your receipts! I beg of you.
I will give you your money back, no problem.
I have an excellent exchange policy, guaranteed
customer satisfaction.
I once found meaning, I thought it was beautiful,
but he crumpled it
in my hand, just arbitrary words, spoken,
then written in a pen
that bleeds when water is present.
I spoke to him once since I returned,
that stranger next door,
pretended that I met him
for the first time.
I said “Nice to meet you”
as he looked to the floor.
By the way,
this has nothing to do with love,
strangers ARE strangers,
the people my mother used to warn me about
as a little girl.
This is all strictly business, professional, like
a company’s mission statement,
a write up slip,
a cover letter, or a call on line one.
It is May, soon summer will come.
This was all his idea, and I want
nothing but everything to do with it.
All I ask is that you wrap my linen sheets
on my naked body and please
tie me to a boat and ship me off into the setting sun.
And when it’s dark, do not let me come home
(even the word home registers
as a shuttering in my brain). I can hear
my friends far away from shore,
screaming
“Brandy, please forget…”
and I go to doctors
begging for cancer or some fatal disease,
I just want a timetable
for my exit ticket out.
Maybe then I will find clarity.
Maybe then I can find meaning
that cannot be destroyed.
I still believe
that even the trade winds can adjust
like hermit crabs changing shells,
as the same songs on old play lists whisper and moan
across rip tides and storms.
These breasts of mine are heavy, as
gravity takes it toll
and my face bears new lines,
abstracted stories in the making, stories in the telling,
but sill no ring on my finger, no baby to tend to.
These days, I want to read books that pump blood in my veins,
light a pity candle, burn some apologies
that were falsely stated in a moment of despair.
I do tarot card readings with the false hope of a teenager
wishing on a star
that the head quarter back will ask her to prom-
the chariot card, the death card, the ace of wands …
They all seem to say,
it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay
Oh Ocean, please heal these wounds
that bleed over dissipating words.
There is nothing left to talk about,
no music to hum along to
and I’ve got friends in Bangkok, yes I’ve
got a few friends in Bangkok.
But none of them read my poems.
They starve themselves as they call me
something other than my name-
when I speak of love they crumble
like sandcastles, as if I am
an ancient temple taken over by trees.
