poemtober day 9- heavy

 heavy
is the steel that weighs the land down.
with piles and piles of things, weight,
the core is under more pressure than its ever been.
matter cannot be created nor destroyed
but i have so much more now than i did a year ago.
can the mantle feel the weight of my friendships? 
my stress? is it heavy for you when my day is worse?
stepping on grass doesn't kill it, 
but if its too compacted it might just burst.
its a heavy thought, its a pact with my core.

poemtober day 8- elderly

 
marie died on tuesday.
i heard she had a fall on her 
way to the bathroom, even
the first floor heard her body slam.
she ordered a scoop of vanilla
and a scoop of chocolate 
with extra whipped cream. 
she loved chocolate bars but
couldnt eat them anymore.
her husband died a few years ago,
his name was elmer. 
she knit him sweaters between meals
and he’d wear them when the
air conditioner turned on.

sorry i forgot to poemtober i was busy writing a draft for fiction. here it is

     My knee itches. Twenty students, hidden by their easels, watch my fingers twitch as I stand on a wooden crate with my body contorted, trying to pose interestingly enough for them to draw. This week, I have a sheet of champagne colored silk draped over my head, resting on my outstretched arms, creasing just enough to challenge the amateur artist. It's been a bit over an hour of inactivity now, my body only shifting when I take too deep a breath. My muscles have gotten used to this temporary atrophy; complete stillness, three hours, twice a week, has been part of my routine for nearly three years now. The students change, but the poses seldom do. Today I have to do my least favorite set, the Greek postures. During their ancient and classical units, I get to sit motionless in a chair, or stand with my hands placed naturally by my side, hip jutted; the Greeks, though, were far too dynamic for my taste. 
    I get paid double for posing in the nude, so I request it even when it isn’t required. I tell the professor that it's for the students’ learning, that they need to master the contours of the body before they can cover it up, but she’s been seeing through it since my eyes lit up at the idea of doubling my pay. Some students can't handle the nude posing. I can always tell, their eyes flitter between my chest and the canvas too quickly for them to get a good enough view. Their finished paintings show it far too clearly as well. Perfect attention to detail on my face, hair, neck, shoulders, then a band of unshaded, barely attempted breasts that closer resemble a lowercase w. At least the clock is in my view today.
    “Ten minutes left, everyone. Add some finishing touches to your pieces” announces Miss Mueller— or Katherine, as she insists I call her. I’ve known her since I was an art student here; she’s always been the type of professor that students vow to impress, and looking at the determined faces on the students in the room, little has changed. She handed me a flyer for this job the night of my last art show after I didn’t sell any pieces.
    The gentle scraping of graphite on paper grinds against my eardrums. I wish Katherine would just let me wear an earbud, but she insists that the contour of the ear is far too important to mask with plastic. Whatever, sure. But it really wouldn’t hurt to turn on the radio or something. 
    “Pencils down class. Good job, be sure to submit your drawings by Sunday night. Class dismissed.”
    My bones creak a little as I lower my arms, bend my knees, and stretch my back. I drape the silk around my neck and grab the satin robe that I left hanging on an unused easel.
    “Nice work today, Berna. I’ll see you next week.” She says to me,
    “Wait— before you go, I just wanted to show you the piece I’ve been working on. I thought it could— I dunno, maybe be hung up in one of the art buildings? Or even just in here, honestly. I’m thinking of making a collection of paintings like this, you know, with the—” My outstretched arm holds up a photo of my most recent painting. It’s not as inspired as my work when I was in school, obviously. I don’t have the motivation for deadlines and competition anymore. 
    She glances at the image, then back up at me. “It’s really nice, Bern. Very unique composition.” She hesitates. “But we unfortunately have to prioritize student art in these buildings. If you come back with a collection, then we can talk about incorporating you into an event for local artists. Keep up the good work, I’ve got to go to my next class. See you next week.”
    She exits before I can stop her again. 
    I change my clothes out in the open. All the students have seen me naked anyway, why bother waiting in line for a bathroom stall when I have the whole room to myself? I change my clothes and check when the next bus will arrive to take me home. Forty minutes. I would walk if my legs weren’t so stiff, I would drive if I could afford to renew my license. But they are, and I can’t. So I wait.
    Most students take all of their supplies with them, but a few always leave them behind. Three easels still had sketchbooks on them. I tend not to look at the drawings they make of me, especially when the position is particularly compromising. But with forty minutes to spare, there was little else to do. Maybe I could learn something from them.
    I stare at the pad of bristol board on the easel closest to me. The lines are sharp, sturdy. There are more wrinkles on my face than in the silk I’m holding. I look old, sad, tired. The shading really brings out the pudge in my thighs. I snap a picture of the drawing to study later. Each drawing looks the same to me. The angles differ ever so slightly, but they all have the same numb expression on their faces, the same forehead lines and crows feet that I never notice in the mirror. It makes my time here feel so far away. I remember the student who sat there– long, auburn hair with deep brown roots growing in, a piercing on her bleached, barely visible eyebrows, and small glasses with rectangular frames. She barely gave me any notice in class, looking up once an hour to make sure her contours were on the right track. Katherine’s favorite, I'm sure. Maybe she’ll get something out of this class.
    Art school didn’t do shit for me but gave me a pompous sense of over-accomplishment and plenty of debt. In my first few years out, I tried to make it in the art world— I submitted to galleries, networked with professors, and hosted shows. But you can only live on canned tuna and savings for so long. I even tried being part time, earning tips bartending at night and begging businesses to commission me for murals and logo designs during the day. Katherine’s job offer saved me from another few years of embarrassment, at least. I get a notification on my phone that the bus is five minutes away. I leave the studio.

    I can’t stop looking at myself in the mirror. Propped upon my sink is the drawing of me. I look back and forth  between them, like a game of spotting the differences. It’s got to be the lighting in the studio. My hair is shorter than that, my wrinkles are less pronounced, my upper arms are far more toned. I can’t see what all these students seem to be doing. 
    I grab a pair of scissors from under the sink and cut off a clump of my hair, maybe four inches. The bob is the most trendy haircut right now, I read it in a waiting room magazine. I shear inches off around my head. Letting split ends and tangled locks fall into the sink. I glance at the drawing again. They’ll notice this.

    I’m always on campus early. I take my time walking around, watching students sketch the deciduous trees that are soon to be bare. Students prop themselves up on each rock or stump, a stickered water bottle and iced coffee at their feet, giant headphones shielding their ears, the collective embodiment of individuality. I go into the studio.
    It’s just Katherine and I in the classroom. She’s on her laptop, probably answering emails with enthusiasm, sending out artistic opportunities to her most gifted students. 
    “Good morning, Katherine” I greet as I shove my tote bag beneath a chair in the corner.
    “Hey, Berna. How was the weekend?” She asks, never breaking eye contact with her computer screen.
    “It was good, y’know. Painted a little, tried to change some stuff up,”  I run my fingers through the front of my hair, trying desperately to volumize my new haircut, emphasizing the change I’ve made. 
    She looks up at me. “Thats good, Bern. I’m glad you haven’t given up, you’ve always been… persistent.” I fake a smile. She’s so backhanded. As if she’s gotten much further in the past decade or so– she’s still lecturing undergrads on how to draw tits, promising them they’ll succeed, and leaving them in the wind once graduation comes. At least I’m onto something new. She didn’t even notice my haircut. The door opens and three students walk in, drawing pads under their arms. Katherine hands me a vase. I undress. I pose.
    I get to sit today, the vase resting on my lap, hands holding it steady in place. It's an easy one, not the type that strains my neck and makes me sleep on my stomach for a week. Katherine is still on her computer, interrupting herself every fifteen minutes or so to walk around the room, hum under her breath at the more talented students' work, raise her eyebrows disapprovingly at others. She used to hum for me, put her hand on my shoulder and pat it with approval. My eyes follow her around the room, not unfocussed the way I was trained to keep them, but alert, watching her every step.
    She lands at the easel of the auburn haired girl. Despite Katherine looming over her shoulder, her pencil strokes stayed consistent, no hesitation whatsoever. I heard Katherine’s hum of approval. The auburn haired girl smiles, continuing her work, never catching her eyes on my unabashed voyeurism. Katherine lays her hand on the girl's shoulder and gives her a soft pat. I look away.
    The next few hours are silent. All I can hear is the music leaking out of the student's headphones and the beat of my own pulse. I try to conjure up an image, something I could paint tonight, something that would make Katherine consider me an artist again. I come up empty.
    “Class dismissed. See you on Thursday, don’t forget your charcoal!” Katherine announces after far too long. I lift the vase off of my lap, rubbing the red marks it made, pressing on my thighs. I put on my robe. She's gone before I can get her attention. 
    When the room is empty again, I find myself staring at the easel of the auburn haired girl. The lines, again, are strong, defined, confident, but wrong. My haircut is homemade, sure, but it's not as uneven as this would make it look. And my eyes don’t droop the way they do in the drawing, she certainly made that up. And the size she's drawn my nose, it's offensive. What could Katherine possibly see in this girl? I close the lid of the notebook and leave the studio.
    
    I stop at the drug store on the way home. I buy black hair dye, red lipstick, and blue nail polish. I smoke three cigarettes during my walk from the drug store to my apartment. 
    When I get home, I walk straight to the bathroom. I squeeze the black dye onto my bare hands and cover my mousy brown hair with the tarlike sludge. I lather it in like its shampoo, staining halfway down my neck. It smells like blackberries and sharpies, I almost want to lick it off of my fingers. I add more and more until my hair is fully saturated, and I wait.
    An hour later, it looks okay. I paint over my black stained nails with my new blue polish, it compliments the greyish dyed skin around it well. I put on a thick layer of lipstick and go to bed. 

    The days have started getting shorter and shorter. It's sunny out, which means once again, the campus green is riddled with students desperate for inspiration. I walk across the green while I reapply my lipstick in my phone camera. Maybe someone will find inspiration from me, from my nonchalant swagger and unique new look. I sit outside the studio waiting for an appropriate time to enter– not too early, but with enough time that Katherine and I can catch up. I watch the students on the lawn all draw the same maple, the one that sits distinctly in the middle of the green. Its leaves turn all at different times, it looks like a ripening apple. I drew that tree nearly every day when I went here.
    Going inside, I tuck my hair behind my ears and check my teeth for lipstick one last time. Katherine looks up when I enter, and raises her eyebrow. 
    “Hey Berna… new look?”
    I smile shyly. “Yes, actually. I thought it was time for a change, y’know.” She noticed.
    “I really prefer my models without makeup, Berna. We’ve talked about this before. The hair is… fine, but I'd really rather you tell me when you're changing things up so I can adjust some things.” She opens her mouth to say more, but I get there first.
    “Sorry, Katherine, it was a spur of the moment decision, you know? I can take off the lipstick for today, I promise I'll let you know anything else. Really, I will.” 
    “Alright, that's fine,” she replies with a half smile. I think she's noticing the haircut for the first time right now. “We just want a classical look, and if you change too much more you wont fit that anymore.” she sighs. “I think you're a great asset to us, Bern. I wouldn’t want to have to lose you over something like that.”
    The door to the classroom opens. Students walk in as her words spin around my head. She puts a stool behind me. I pose.
    I lean against the stool, hands in my lap, head tilted to the left. The students are out of my sight today, I can barely see Katherine in my periphery. Maybe this is her punishment. I need to keep my look classical, no more trendy flair, no more modern beauty standards. My eyes water, whether from Katherine's words or a lack of blinking is unclear. 
    I hear her hum. I wish I could see who she was looking at, whose work she was giving her stamp of approval to. I shift my neck slowly to the right, so slow it creaks like an old door. I turn all the way, and shed my eyes on the crowd. A few confused faces look up at me, but Katherine is too busy with the auburn haired girl. She's watching her every mark like its theatre, as if she was the next coming of Picasso. Katherine tilts her head up to look at me, and I twist mine back to its original position. My neck makes a cracking noise, so loud I gasp and lose balance. I grab the stool for stability, but it just comes down with me. I lay on the floor silently while forty two eyes fixed themselves on me. I blink. 
    Katherine coughs. “Berna, please reassume your previous position.” she says sternly. I stand, stool in my hands, trying to adjust back to my original position. Head tilted to the left, body leaning, I feel like I've got it. “Class, please flip to a new page in your sketchbook and start over. Your drawings won't be graded this week.” 
    The pit in my stomach grows and grows as I watch them all discard their initial drawing and start again. Signs of disappointment and frustration fill the room. My new pose can’t be that far off, it's basically the same. I open my mouth to protest, but close it when Katherine locks eyes with me.
    Despite there only being an hour left in class, it feels like a week. I don't dare move a muscle, not even a twitch. I barely blink. I think I've willed even the breeze to stop blowing through my hair. Katherine sits at her desk for the rest of the period. She doesn’t even get up to look at the auburn haired girl’s new drawing. The time can't go any slower. 
    “Alright class, you can head out. Don't submit anything this week, I apologize for the change in plans. Have a good day.” Katherine announces. People shuffle their things , pick up their bags, and leave. I remain static in my pose. “Berna, you can stop now.” she tells me. My body relaxes, letting go of the built up tension from the last hour.i slip on my robe.
    “I’m so sorry katherine, i really didn’t mean to fuck anything up, i just had a twitch and i-” I begin.
    “You know better, Berna. I’ll see you next class.” Katherine picks up her laptop and leaves. I’m left alone. 
    I know that I shouldn't have been trying to look at them. I couldn't help myself. It's the hum, every time I hear it, I need to know what it's about. I flip back to the auburn hair girl’s first drawing from today. It's unfinished, clearly, but it has the same confident strokes it always does. She noticed the strain in my arm, the vein that pops out when I lean on it for too long. She notices everything. 
    I need to go home. I should dye my hair back to brown, probably. I wish I could grow it back out. How can I look like a Greek statue with this face, this hair? I need something to make my look more classic.
    I get off of the bus three stops earlier than normal. I walk around a pedestrian street, one with little shops and restaurants for families visiting students can stop by. I turn down an alley and enter the Holistic Ink tattoo shop.
    I've never gotten a tattoo before. It feels different than I thought, more like an epilator than a flu shot. The skin around it is raw, red, burning. There's a thin layer of saran wrap over the piece, I can't quite tell what it looks like yet. It’s classic, elegant. Katherine will love it.

    I’m almost vibrating with excitement when I arrive on campus. She’ll see my commitment, a physical embodiment of class and poise, the perfect model. I show up to campus in my robe, I'm in the studio before she even arrives. I disrobe and look in the small mirror in the corner of the classroom. I begin to peel around the edges of the saran wrap, a sticky noise filling the room as I remove it. It's redder than it will be soon, but I'm sure she’ll get the point. 
    It’s black and white and red all over. The picture goes from clavicle to clavicle, nearly up my neck. A woman with long, medium toned hair, blushing cheeks, and a pained expression. Her head tilts to the left, her body twists to the right. Her lips are parted ever so slightly, the shadow of her front teeth barely visible. She has small, rectangular glasses. She looks just how I wanted her to.
    Katherine walks in her room, laptop in hand. She sees me in the corner of my room and drops it.
    “What did you do?” she asks, slowly taking a step forward. I smile.
    “Isn’t it great? I got it done last night, it wont be so… raw… in the future, but i thought it could be great for class today, try something new.” I push my bare chest out towards her, showing off the entire piece.
    She hesitates. “You’re fired, Bern. I’m sorry.”
    “What do you mean? Fired– but— I didn't do anything! I got this for you, Katherine, its classic, its Greek, what you wanted. Please, katherine, i-”
    “It's over, Berna. Please leave”
    I do.

poemtober day 4- deer

when the road twists and turns i follow with my headlights beaming, sparkling streetlights resemble flying cars.
the smell of gasoline pairs well with whiskey, an open container is an embarrassing way to go down.
i turn the blind drive, eyes wide open,
another pair of headlights, large and round, look back at me.
i accelerate and accelerate and lurch forward with a crash.
the sound of a body hitting the ground, legs, one, two, three, four snap.
fawn have spots, i always forget. this one had a wound on its left rear thigh. it would have gone on its own anyway.
misery begone, i pour the rest of my beer on its torso.

poemtober day 3- crown

 i told the queen to die the day that she did.
i told charles to die shortly after.
when i last tweeted KYS i got suspended for 72 hours
time which was filled by writing in my notes app one liners and thesaurus words. 
my favorite princesses were jasmine and ariel
because jasmine wore pants
and ariel wore nothing.
you never see princesses with pants and a crown,
theyre all embracing the oh so suppressed femininity
that the world is trying to take away from them.
I’d wear jeans to my coronation.

a few words from each poem ive posted to this blog

Picking up handfuls of fragmented
Love, bleeding by the palms of their 
Hands, disregarding the pain.

a condom or a shoelace hole or
the sticky bottom of the pan i left dirty.

Thirsty for the wine we never shared,
Feeling fatigued by the weight of the planets,
I want to, need to fall asleep

 Through rocks and plants, a pirouette,
I squeeze him tight like a tourniquet

a fly
Cavorting at the sweet smell of the pierced skin.

He peeled me grapefruits.
He would eat the bruised half, and I would pile
Tablespoons of sugar on mine. 

Someone is dead.
Even the trees know it.
All things please the soul,
When the water boils I get
Shells & seaweed,
A cup of tea.

you are ignominious, 
A wretched woman unworthy of
Forgiveness.

I am not a wicked, shameless woman, I am not a 
Slut, I fuck and I fuck and I fly and I fall, and I will beseech the lord to 
Let me live

 if i take an edible with my mom it might
turn our relationship from transactional into
familial

without my nails or my bones
without my head or my toes
with my back and my groin

, poems about my brother and poems
about the professor who just gave me a b-.

shut the fuck
up about your recent paper

i
keep getting the seventh note wrong but i 
will play it again and again, wrong and wronger

Poe loved haunted houses.
At least there's nothing under my floorboards.

you could
even make yourself seem a
little bit more poetic than you are


the boy i pretended to have
a crush on in sixth grade who
played along with our bogus 
romance and then came
out in high school

The blood from my hand spilt
Onto my sweater, the one I wore to my 
High school graduation and great uncles
Funeral.

I call
Her a reminicantagonist, a futurephiliac

research
controversial performance art for a half
hour instead of doing your bob dylan 
album listening homework response

my fingers need mittens! 

my friends hate it lots
but they all use word
which is pussy shit for pussies
and used by only nerds
my friends hate it lots
but they all use word
which is pussy shit for pussies
and used by only nerds

 for a split second i'm suicidal.

when all the food is gone,
what are we supposed to eat? should we try to revive the
old food, or should we sow new seeds?

i have so much DIRT under my 
fingernails. im always bleeding from somewhere

a lot of chipped nail polish and coins i like to jingle to the beat of my music

not the wheels, not my chewing, not creating, not glueing

i need to write music! i need to make art! i need to clean under my bed!

She thought it touched the memory
Center, because she finally remembered the songs
her dad used to sing to her

And when you kiss me my stomach brain lips toes curl.

They're taking my money and giving it to someone else.

Just like Jesus, I was born in a stable.

Dust bunnies make friends with my belly button lint

I'll park the boat right on the dock,
Tighten my anchor, chain, and lock.
Ill step off the edge, onto the shore,
I'll trip over a tiny rock.

The room
Held me like one of its own.

i miss her i love her i love her i love you

None of us will travel further than Nevada 
Even though we planned a trip to Berlin
Where we would try MDMA in Berghain.

two poets walk into a bar,
one with a basket of flowers in her arm,
the other with a bowl of meatballs and spaghetti.

you read your first book at nineteen
and wrote your first at nineteen and a half
because you knew you could do it better.

your friendship means a lot to me and i don’t want to do anything that could hurt it. 

Orange cheeks and pink noses, sunburnt shoulders and 
Potentially the remnants of fish gills.

If only your tongue was a lime,
Then kissing you wouldn’t be so sweet.

"rowuarurhuhghuh?"

But the 
Dragonfly causes the water to ripple
And scares the fish away.

i don’t think ill stop smoking until i know
whether theyre black and blue yet.

i wish i could blog in my own voice
instead of sounding like an 
abandoned rupi kaur napkin

ill pile stevia into my coffee
and wrap my sandwich in plastic
rewatch shows on my giant tv
and glue glitter to my eyelids.

because now my anger falls where it is supposed to, where it hasn’t since my hair was halfway down my back.

landing in the under painting of a new england landscape—
the type frost would write about, not dickinson. 

 the stems split between my fingers,
the milk of the weed sputters out, 
and the fragile, flying seeds stick to it like
feathers to glue.

poemtober day 2- weave

ive never woven a crown from dandelions 
though ive seen it done a hundred times before.
 the stems split between my fingers,
the milk of the weed sputters out, 
and the fragile, flying seeds stick to it like
feathers to glue.
dandelion petals are so small, so thin,
hairy from the stigma, sticky from the bee, and bending away from my touch. 
if the stems stopped splintering id spend my whole day weaving, 
making ropes and ladders, necklaces and accessories. 
Id wear on my head the rotted petals and leaves
and spray perfume to mask the smell.

poemtober day 1- landscape

 
ive replaced trees with mountains and ponds with lakes
but they all turn green at some point in the year. 
a maple tree rounds at the top, a pine points upwards. 
its not as hard to visit anymore,
I only tear up when i say goodbye and kiss the roads with no yellow lines. 
finding my footing took two decades and i still trip over nothing,
landing in the under painting of a new england landscape—
the type frost would write about, not dickinson.