For as we live, we hide the place we found

Latest post for Hijacked Amygdala

hijacked amygdala

In polite society, I was born before 1999 and know

You oughtn’t make mention of wanting to be fucked

Then behind your clean starched mask, you tilt wildly

Stringing sentences with unevenly matched Japanese pearls

Wanting to reduce the sauce and toss your marrow

Spilling on good clean table cloth

Pent up urges

Good girls with breeding

Even those with tattoos and bar bells

Have no karaoke for the need to be sexed

It’s unacceptable

Unless you’re a muse of Mira Nedyalkova

To show your keening before nightfall

If indeed there is a room for

The un-beautiful cast offs

Dampening their secret gyrate

When the door bell chimes

And lust must be folded against bedtime book

Empty beds, careless marriages

They stopped touching you, as the record ended

Scratching against needle in the sleeping dark of disinterest

Still you had unquenchable thirst

Standing by the window watching swallows…

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Unmentionables

What can’t be said aloud

or even blown into an envelope

placed in a bottle and set to sea

or kept beneath your pillow in diary

those words and feelings without words cannot

find a place of expression

for a multitude of reasons or just one

you carry them around like a weight

dripping from your neck

sometimes in a weak moment

you feel yourself urging to spill

the bunting and string it high

confidences for everyone to see

what’s the worst that could happen?

and yet, you know, the worst

is bad enough to keep

you quiet

how many others, you wonder

carry their own list of unmentionables

and what would they be?

any in common or always unique?

if you let someone know

the sum of you

would they

grow bored?

become disgusted?

smile and say ‘i understand’

when they did not?

who can understand the deep of us?

where we dare not venture, let alone another

what permissions given and retracted

exist?

like the long necked lillies that spring

miraculously from dry texan ground

after it has rained and

the electric mist has caused wonder

to touch the barren

perhaps it is a sign when

you can talk of such things

late into the night

with a stranger you will never

meet again

or that you whisper to yourself

the varied outcomes of confession

strung on a tree, lighting dark road

no, sometimes it is best

we model our forefathers and mothers

who knew what to keep to themselves

for years they held them in jars

turning to the light once in a while

and when they died, sometimes you would find

one survived the cull

and everyone would hush and hold their breaths

in inky silence

not sure of how to respond

somehow a secret after you are gone

doesn’t hold the same concern

and maybe they were free of them

in that hour

when all who knew, discovered

they had not

known them at all

Survival

The man wasn’t yet forty

Had cancer four times

Told her; This time I can’t survive it

She asked; Why are you still at work?

Don’t you want to leave it behind?

Take a trip? See the redwoods?

But before he answered, she knew

The photos on his phlebotomists table

Of three little faces, told her why

And it made her angry that they both lived in a country where

Dying people had to work for their children

To receive healthcare

And she was more angry

With her own lack of appreciation

For a healthy life that she possessed

Without children

Or any reason to try so hard

And he was brave because he had no choice

And she was weak

Because she did

Without you

Your betrayal came before the post on Monday

If I listened it may have sounded

Like paper in air, losing gravity

The unexpected slap of shiny magazine

And echoing hinged snap of closed door flap

The postman left his shoe imprints in the snow

One way in, one way out and the bare branches of the trees

Were cold dancers cupping themselves to imaginary fernace

You had already gone before the skies admitted

Their talcum-powdered descent of white

Your letter, handwriting in your bold certain shape

The same hand that had led me up the stairs

A silver bracelet bought when we visited the seaside, on your wrist

Strong hand, reaching for me, for my rustle and my yawning silouette

We were shapes against the mirror of moonlight

Streaming our own version of whispers and little cries

You never let go of my hand even

As you turned your neck and slept, dreamlessly by my side

And I lay in partial light feeling your resonance

Play like an instrument on my damp skin

Your upright, careful letter and the last word, your name

A name I had put into the core of me and melted down

Covering any fear that you’d crack my heart

Open like a woodland walnut and expose the soft innards

No, not this woman, with her fingers reading my brail

And her tongue searching for stars in the folds of hesitate

She has breathed me in, carved her name in my wood

I cannot stir without a part of her moving alongside me

Life no longer singular I am now and always, illuminated

By her rounding glow and the peach dream of her thighs

Wrapped in mutual surround, the open window

Carrying our symphony into gloaming night wind

How then are you gone?

As rapid as my chest threatens to explode

A single firework

Removed from me and behind, spending in your wake

Emptiness

Letters furthering no explanation, blurring in porcelain horror

If I had listened

Maybe the stir of settling snow or else

Some torn part would reveal

The sense in loss

I stand by the picture window

Wearing an old shirt of yours

Yellow at the collar and faded with wash

Across the road, a neighbor walks her dogs

She glances my way and sees

Only the shadow of

A life without

You

Nourishment

There resides in you

A shifting filament

While you are composed of water

The filament burns sage and longing

Sometimes the current of your nature holds you back

Makes you feel tired just stepping into effort’s shoes

The filament never tires but stares

Bare eyed into the center of the humming universe

And spinning in its helium, sees what you could have been

If like others

You had caught fire instead of brine

And rising out of the ocean

Growing legs and feet to run

Naked and filled with satelite urge

Down shining shellac road

But it was not your way

You are the gentle nudge behind theatre curtain

You prefer the feel of bunched velvet and the spotlights on the other side

When young girls fought to be first

You found no competition pooling in yourself

It was as if

You had drunk your fill and

Just wanted to be free

People would say

Why doesn’t she want more?

Why doesn’t she fight for it?

They did not understand

She was made of water

There was only so long she could

Breathe air

And the heat of desired things

Steaming on the tongues of others

Before she slipped gratefully

Beneath the membrane of the world

And watched

Them clamor

And beat their chests

To get one step ahead

She was

Running out of time

For her edges evaporated

With each muse of sound

Capturing the necks of mountains

And her love knew

When she grew warm

Water could hardly contain

Her steaming rise

But against the world of noise

And clamoring souls inching for their

Fifteen minutes

She must have appeared a wilted flower

Bent at the neck

She didn’t fit with brick and mortar

Reducing days to races, tests, competitions

Her nourishment always lay in your arms

Twisting like plankton, dancing in sea spray

Stitch

nude-woman-in-river-monica-and-michael-sweetShe left

like a thread

pulled through muslin

her pillow smelt

of the push of hair in night

turned in bad dream and

from me for so long

I had

held on

the capsize of our ship

drowning us both

outstaying oxygen to

feel her return

how she used to

take my hand in dark

placing it where she felt

the most

there is a varnished gulf

a painted arroyo

starched land thirsting for renewal

lapsing between us

and it will not be with me

her eyes have lost their glitter

when she turned

it was with the flat gaze of someone

who had already

closed that chapter

bought her ticket

and was reaching for the next

like an arrow

driving its way into my chest

and out again

the feeling of quills and feathers

pulled free by strung force

a sound of cascading hurt

almost like the world sighed

in the room that was once ours

by the violet light of afternoon

where I lay watching her move

in green light, the weight of dew

like words without meaning

I tore myself to pieces

unable to let go

of the ache she left

in her shattering wake

as pulling stitches when healed

will always feel

like something whole

is breaking

Sneak Peak: Candice Louisa Daquin Reviews Christine Ray’s Composition of a Woman

Coming July 2018 from Sudden Denouement Publishing

“Poet Christine Ray’s first printed collection of poetry, Composition of a Woman (Sudden Denouement Press, 2018) is a striking, fearless foray into the psyche of womanhood, both highly relatable and intensely personal for female readers and achingly candid and fascinating for male.”

Candice Louisa Daquin, Pinch the Lock

To see the original post go to https://wp.me/p7VIYa-4m9

“the loss of you
punctured the night sky
like tiny pinpricks on a black canvas
covering the moon from view
allowing only the smallest rays
of cool silver light
to feather touch
my pale lips
my empty hands”