In the Language of Gods

Photo by Madex Photography on Pexels.com

In the language of gods,

we speak in whispers

of the luxury to touch

And know all there is

to know of heaven and earth

mingled here in our hearts

and in the earth

beneath us–

a braid

we create in ecstasy

of feeling knowing

all there is to know

of ourselves

and each other–

the sweetness

of rapture

dripping from

the soul

 

 

Petals of Words

Photo by Yaroslav Shuraev on Pexels.com

 

 

I swore never to give my words away like blossoms in the spring.

Yet, I marvel at all the words I’d gather,

arrange for you in artful, elegant bouquets.

I’ve keloid locks where my words are stored.

I possess not the oils to soften those locks,

Trapping my words deep in their vault,

My words may never know freedom.

 

Yet, I find myself streaming petals of words for you

In hazy, lazy patterns,

Knowing you have the wisdom, the soul

To read my words much like braille—

A code of sorts–

So you can hear and know,

Though unspoken,

All my words bestow.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Song Reminds Her

I wrote this several years ago. Posted it and then later took it down. I’ve revised it and worked with it a bit. It’s time to leave this one alone.

 

A song reminds her of all those years ago—

Upon the screen words of “survivor”

And “not your fault” inked upon the forearms of a chorus—

 

In a moment,

All the gains of strength and safety cut,

Sliced by a razor as air is choked off,

And she is held up by the throat,

Feet dangling off the ground.

Then slammed into a wall,

The back of her head hitting first.

Fighting blackness, wanting to yield to it for peace,

Fear keeps her from giving in.

 

When another backhand hits across her mouth.

She reels, turns, struggling to move forward.

If she could just make it to the phone,

To the kitchen, maybe grab a knife.

Her hair grabbed from behind,

Pulls her back, off balance, she falls.

 

“Get back here, you fucking cunt.”

 

Her dog barks, bares teeth, growls.

 

Laughter, “Only have to kick that wiener dog like this—”

She feels ribs crack.  She can’t breathe. 

 

“And I’d kill him.”

 

She finds enough air, tells her dog it’s okay and to go to his bed.

 

“This ends when I say, bitch.”

 

Her hair is grabbed, and she is pulled down the hall to her bedroom.

 

“Now, you’ll give me what you owe me, you fucking cunt.”

 

She is pulled to her feet, stumbling against the wall,

She wonders what her fever is up to now, after this.

After all, she was sent home by her principal

Because the school nurse said a teacher

With a fever of 102 shouldn’t be around kids.

 

“Thought you were gonna get to that phone, didn’t you?”—laughter

“Just imagine, the cops showing up for a domestic disturbance at a lesbian’s

Apartment.  You know those TV cameras would follow.  How’s your job after that?”

Fingers dig into her face, grabbing, gripping, squeezing.

 

She is thrown across the bed, T-shirt ripping.

Now. Now is the time to fight. She reacts—flailing—use anything,

Nails, elbows, fists, knees—anything to connect, cause pain,

Then open a window to get away.

She feels a fist to her jaw, tastes blood.

A fist to an eye.  It’s hard to take a breath.  Her side hurts.

A hand at her throat.

 

“Stop it, cunt.”

 

Something in the timbre, in the octave, in the venom,

Makes her stop then.  This can’t happen.  Can’t be.  Her thoughts stop.

It all barely registers after that—

Teeth biting, something tearing upon entering, a fist to the face again.

 

“I said kiss me, you bitch.”

 

She tastes blood again.  She’s rolled over when she doesn’t comply.

 

“Think you’re better than me, you stupid cunt?  I’ll show you.”

 

She thinks she must have screamed

Because her hair is pulled and used

To shove her face into the mattress.

 

Then it—stops.

She doesn’t know if she passed out or not.

Rumbling.  A crash.  Cursing from the kitchen, then the living room.

It’s best not move yet she thinks.  And she doesn’t know if she could.

Then she hears the front door slam shut.

Movement returns to limbs.

Swollen faced and bleary eyed, she struggles to the door.

Lock the dead bolt, chain latch and all.

Hurts to take a breath,

But she must clean,

Must wash,

Must scrub,

The apartment and herself.

Erase, erase it all—

All the traces, any trace

Of what happened.

No.  It didn’t happen.

It did not happen because it could not.

As she steps into a scalding shower,

Wash away the blood,

The touch.  Memory.

The she realizes more soap doesn’t help

The bleeding between her legs stop.

Then she realizes there is bleeding

from her anus too.

She isn’t sure now what to do.

How could she answer

The questions of a doctor

At a hospital ER?

 

She sinks down in the shower,

Thinking of what she must do.

Call into work, they expect it.

She is, after all, sick with a flu of some sort.

Break the lease,

Find a new apartment,

Movers are required, no time to wait on friends and a U-Haul.

 

Begin to rebuild, to regain.

Only to wake,

Weeks later,

In a new apartment across town,

Hiding with her dog behind clothes in a closet,

And she knows she needs to do something.

She won’t live like this.

She didn’t work to overcome

the damage of an abusive alcoholic parent

to live like this.

 

Find a therapist and begin

To pick the shards of shattered safety

From the wounds,

Find the strength and begin.

 

“You’re going to have to admit what happened to yourself.”

 

Listen to the therapist’s litany for a moment:

            Facial bruising and swelling prevent returning to work for nearly two weeks.

            Bruised, if not broken, ribs from being kicked.

            Bite marks on the neck and breasts.

            Vaginal and anal bleeding for over three days.

 

“What does that list of injuries sound like to you?”

 

Her words tumble, fractured,

Broken by a truth she thought to scrub away:

            …what you’re trying to get me to say…red flags

            …addicted to speed or cocaine…so I cut it off…

            …showed up at my apartment with soup… since I was sick

            …became irate…still said no to seeing each other…

            …hyped up on something that night…couldn’t fight her off

            …so damn strong…couldn’t fight…another woman, for God’s sake…

            …Not the same…

 

“Was anything that happened that night consensual?”

 

“Absolutely not.”

 

“That’s the definition of rape, isn’t it?  Not consensual.”

 

In the admission,

The rebuilding, the redesign

Of strength, of safety, of taking back control,

She recalls the words:

All the words she has fought,

Words flung at her by friends and girlfriends who claimed to love her—

 

            –One woman can’t do that to another.  Lesbians don’t do that to each other.

            –It couldn’t have been as bad as a real rape.  It was only a woman. So, get over it.

            –You must have done something to make it happen, to push her to that point.

            –Women don’t rape.

 

Yes, so she thought too, even after it happened to her—

At least for a little while,

Until she admitted it was true.

But she learned to stay silent,

Trusting very few with the truth.

 

Even after all these years,

To have survived, regained control, found safety

And know it wasn’t her fault,

Intellectually inside,

Yet deeper down,

There remains a tiny pebble of shame

Since her community said—

            It wasn’t real

            Since it wasn’t a man.

            It was her fault

            Since she refused sex after six weeks of dating

            And wouldn’t continue to date her.

            It never happened

            since lesbians don’t rape.

 

She stands, watching the video her daughter shares a second time.

She finds herself close to tears at seeing the words “Not Your Fault”

Inked upon an arm.  Her daughter wants to know if she thinks

It’s cool.  She says it’s great.  It’s empowering for those involved.

She quickly turns away.

She can’t tell her heterosexual daughter

That it happened.

If her community couldn’t accept it,

How could her daughter?

A risk she cannot take.

 

If she moves, twists, walks a certain speed or way,

That tiny pebble of shame bruises a little still,

As if yet rolling around in her shoe.

Perhaps for those in the community her daughter’s age,

Things are different and they hear, if it should happen,

            Lesbians do rape.

            It was real.

            You did nothing wrong.

            It is not your fault.

 

It is her thought.

It is her silent

Reverent, fervent prayer.

 

 

Buried

Image courtesy of The Guardian

https://amanpan.com/2021/07/08/eugis-weekly-prompt-network-july-8-2021/

 

Can’t really say how it happened.

But it did.  All those years ago.

Some may say it’s a pity or a sin.

All I say is I survived.

 

It was the lava, really.

That’s at fault.  Yeah, maybe

me, since I did let it in.

Into my network of arteries and veins,

letting it flow until it coated

everything inside.

It cooled.

I turned to stone.

I walked in skin and could yet bleed.

But, sure enough, inside—

I was stone.

I felt nothing.

And that felt good—

To be cold as stone.

No longer part of the network of humanity

Though I walked in it—

How perfect it felt

to feel inhuman,

to feel nothing at all–

At least, for a little while.

 

 

When

Image courtesy of Kanascitymag.com

https://godoggocafe.com/2021/07/06/tuesday-writing-prompt-challenge-tuesday-july-6-2021/

Today’s prompt— Write a poem using evanescence, trill, and longevity.

When

           dreams held up the sky

           the edge of sea could cleanse a soul

           magic chimed in the songs of birds

           the universe trilled with vibrancy contained in starlight

           the evanescence of our lives unquestioned

 

then hope, golden and shining, possessed eternal longevity.

Upon the Morning Air

Image courtesy of Melinda Fawver@Dreamtime.com

 

A scent upon the air this morning still

 

At least in these wild imaginings—

 

With the colors of sunrise muted

By the humid haze hanging in the air,

My eyes close to better see the glow

Of white skin by moonlight,

To better catch the scent

Of her in the slight breeze–

 

And then—I do not know—

 

It seems I feel the touch of angel feathers upon my face.

Tethered

Image is my own

https://sammiscribbles.wordpress.com/2021/07/03/weekend-writing-prompt-216-tether/

Lightning cracked the sky today

Very nearly tethering Desire and Want,

Who entwined, rolling from edge

To edge of the horizon—

 

And I walked,

Thinking I’d make it home

Before pelting rain could chill

My heated sweating skin.

 

But I did not.

Clothes soaking,

Wet through—

I made it home,

Trailing water drops

Down the hall.

 

Finally, dry and warmed,

Dressed in fresh clothes,

I looked outside

To find a pink sky,

With clouds tethered

To the earth like me.

 

July

Image courtesy of O’Conner Mortuary

 

I’d nail all the windows in that month shut.

Board the place completely up.

All closed and shuttered,

Leaving it to the dust and rot.

July—the only summer month

I’d abandon

The month forced me to abandon you—

How is a starving  child forced to leave

A mother who sold herself

So the child could eat?

Thus, I cared for you

Until I had to reach out and close your eyes—

Then I dreamed

Dreamed–

I nailed the windows in every room shut

And I boarded up every room.

I took a hammer to that floor to ceiling avocado green tile

Of the kitchen tomb,

Shattering every single inch

Of mirror green shine.

I brought the garden hose in

And hosed down all our scars

Until yours and mine

Nearly disappeared.

Then I woke

And buried you

Under roses

In hot, steamy July

Shuttering you away

Until I thought there’d

Be nothing left of you.

But you are always here.

I pick the good of you

From the rubble,

See little bits of you

In each of your grandchildren.

I see bits of you in my daughter,

And our legacy is not only

One of scars.

Upon Waking by Annette Kalandros

I am honored to be featured on Masticadoresusa.wordpress.com

MasticadoresUsa

Upon Walking
by Annette Kalandros
[author’s site]

Linger here
In this vibrancy of opalescent color,
This swirling silken scent,
Hide the realities away
For they intrude too much
Upon this, this sweetness of longing—
Let me wake, reaching out a hand
tracing air as if following the curves of her
warm skin in memory

@Annette Kalandros

ABOUT US

Welcome to MasticadoresUSA.

MasticadoresUSA was founded byJuan Re Crivello as part ofGobblers/Masticadoresin 2021. Its current editor isGabriela Marie Milton.

MasticadoresUSA features talented writers of poetry and short prose. We primarily publish writers who write in English, and are based in the USA. However, while the publication language remains English, we also welcome the work of our fellow writers from all over the world.

What do we want to bring to our readers? Edgar Allan Poe once wrote:Poetryis the rhythmical creation of beauty in words.This…

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