little russian tears
pouring into american soil
we just dont speak the same language
I
have forgotten the words for turtle and whale
remember return
but don’t know how to paint the entire picture
see how
grandmother
never got to read my poems
native tongue slipping
cant cut the tension
with secondary weapons
or tools
or maybe its always been both no matter what sounds
are caught slipping
now
tears shed on american soil
encompassing russian bodies
and I dont know
in what language she’ll hear me
or if she watched me let her go
lips glued together
sort of smiling
like it was never about language
always
just about letting go.

He’s nothing like the last one right?
Not all dolled up potential
not all future looks bright
present is just something we gotta stick through
nothing like that.

And when you do that one piece
about the woman,
who keeps a closet full of corpses of men,
who do not fit,
you never see his body bag.

Never cut it open
straight down the middle so you can
stare at those black tar lungs
as they whisper empty promises about how he’s gunna quit one day
and you just gotta hang around long enough till that day comes
cuz you don’t wanna miss out on another good one
cuz this is what the good ones look like these days
they’re all full of smoke,
and you’re all, stuck in the mirror
trying to decipher which reflection rings true.

There are ashes falling
from the sky.

The bees are nesting in the cracks
we couldn’t fill.

The sirens won’t stop
going off.

My dog won’t start
howling.

The spiders have built
homes in the fence.

I wonder if they’re in there.

How do you knock on a spider’s web?

You don’t.

Or.

Gently.

The helecopter’s doing circles
overhead.

That always sounds serious.

You should see how I spelled hele [i] copter
before I had a chance to check.

I guess it could technically still be right
until it isn’t.

The street gets quiet for no one.

7 Eleven is the city that
never sleeps.

Sometimes a wine glass breaks
into only a handful of pieces so
it doesn’t have to be dramatic.

A poem
makes everything sound dramatic.

He tells me, “Miss, your husband is a dick.”

I don’t have a husband.

So half of that statement sounds like wishful thinking.

It is darker than it...

when he tells me he loves me
I only know how to ask why
or how
or don’t you see the mess I am?

I don’t say it back
don’t know if it’s him
or me.

know only how to chase it when
it’s not there
recoil back when it’s given freely.

but he really feels like something
and I really felt forever
and for a moment I was not scared.

But now am terrified.

How do I say I love you
to fear?
to,
“I’ll wear you out one day.”
to,
everything I’ve ever wanted
but still feeling
like it’s not enough.

Because I
have always felt like
too much.

And it will drown us both
and it will be unforgettable.

How do I hold onto a thing
that feels like everything
and nothing at the same time?

like I could just let go
and momentarily feel totally fine.

until I’m not
until I’m trying to say I love you in the mirror
but I cannot say it back

and I don’t know if it’s me
or me.

the women are growing out their hair for you
their nails for you
their legs for you
you like them all long

but they want to
cut
cut
cut

find nail clippings in the sink
to erase every dead part of us they touched

find hair clippings in the sink
to erase every dead part of us they touched

we do not remove our legs for you
we do not remove our legs for you

these living parts remind us
we could have always run
but didn’t.

We do not know why
and most times
the facts don’t make so much a difference
as the stories
and the stories
aren’t so much facts as they are tales

and we
are always so busy chasing our own

only want what looks familiar
only want what hurts familiar
who hurts familiar

trauma
is a breeding ground for
trauma is a breeding ground for
trauma
is a breeding ground

call it generational
call our children second chances
call our homes cleaned
...

our friends are all following our friends
“suggested for you,” means
this is all tit for tat
especially if you’re into that kinda thing
the invites are always coming in
it’s not our fault if you’re not there to see them
not our business if it’s for your mental health
see how your attempt at control
is really just admitting you have none
so you delete
and reload
and delete
and reload
and wonder if it can ever be permanent
but it never is
because the invites are still coming
because no one picks up their phones these days
you notice
you’re the only one sending text message check-ins
and “can you hangouts?,”
if you stop
things get quiet
and no one with anxiety knows how to do quiet
which is why this poem keeps typing itself
there’s no metaphor about trying to fill the silence
no metaphor in trying to delete forever
it’s not like I don’t want you
it’s that I want you...

We were not prepared for this
for having to grieve a body
that is still alive
but a thief of life.

I do not remember my last run
can’t recall if I made good time
or if it was one of those
never ending
count the cracks of the pavement
the broken backs of all mothers
be it yours or mine,
kind of runs.

I remember the doctor telling me no more
like he was some God I forgot to pray to
did not pile enough at the alter of
gratitude for every stride
now
I drown dried petals in tears
do not recall my last real stride.

We were not prepared for this.

I do not remember the look on my mother’s face
forever remember the words engraved,
“what was that running doing for you anyway?”

It was everything
but you cannot translate everything
это все
in Russian
without also saying,
“that’s it”
все!

We were not prepared for, “that’s it,”
for hang up your jersey
I held onto my track...

My body
has always been this cold thing
my mother
always tells me
it’s a bad thing
I’ve learned to tell myself the same
but don’t see a thing in the world I could change.
Maybe my body
remains so cold because all of the heat has gone to its joints
maybe my body
has become so brittle because it cannot bear anymore weight.

My therapist
suggests referring me elsewhere
doesn’t know how to talk about my pain
has no idea what it feels like
I can’t remember a day in the last ten years
where I had no idea what if feels like
where pain wasn’t baseline
where a day off wasn’t a miraculous exception.

I don’t remember the last miraculous exception.

Don’t remember not feeling like the sick friend
“No,”
has begun to slip from my tongue
before they even ask
my body
a constant rejection
the invites
have stopped arriving at its door.

But they are all still so full of compliments,
“look...

Ever forgotten the word for turtle?
черепаха.

Ever forgotten the word for dress?
dress
dress
dress

платье!

Ever forgotten how to pronounce your last name in your first language?

Yes.

Ever been too embarrassed to ask?

Yes.

At least I know my first name
know it means
peace
but it often feels like war.

War
war
war

…nothing

I’ve noticed when I have nothing
I fill in the space with anger
with leave
with not interested

what I mean is
I don’t know how to say
what I mean
what I mean
what I mean

Is I will bury my parents
with having never known anything
of substance
see I don’t know how to ask
anything of substance
I don’t even know the word for
substance
substance
substance

…nothing.

Rock-a-bye, baby
On the treetop
When the wind blows
The cradle will rock

I have been balancing
on a tree branch
this moment
knows all the anxiety that will
follow me down,
when I swear I’ve finally become grounded.

When the bough breaks
The cradle will fall

Grounded.
Grounded.
What is grounded if not having finally found
the bottom of the rabbit hole?
Found the pit, following all those running thoughts.
It is dark in here
no matter your focus
you can’t imagine the light bulb on.
You can only take the paths that you walk upon.
Sometimes it’s too late to change direction.
This is down.

And down will come baby
Cradle and all

Call everything you do protection,
wrap yourself in illusionary shelter
we’ll call it by it’s name
its only a name
let’s not get offended
by numb
sometimes it’s useful
when it’s growing dark you try not to feel
the light leave the room.
But...