Glass Globe (Good Girl)

you called me your good girl
in heels
dresses
shaved legs and perfume like lilies
lavender hair
crystal tear drops, rain drops, lemon drops
hanging heavy from my ears
gum drops
sugary lips
cigarette breath with listerine
your good girl in black
in red
in glitter skin, twisted bows
wild hair, wild heart
heavy heavy wild breathing
your bad girl in blue
disco ball dancing
circles around you
shots of whiskey
lime from your lips
spinning on a string
from your fingertips
i'm a glass globe
wind me up and watch me twirl
down, down, down
on
you drop me and i shatter

Remember?

These are some of the lines I liked best from a writing exercise we did in our Writing Group last year.



I remember drinking chicken soup in my grandmother's kitchen  while they took him out the back door.

I remember the way you said my name the first time we met.

I remember my first drink and 7 years later I remember nothing.

I remember watching the fireworks explode over the pond while she cried at home.

I remember finding my drugstore reading glasses under her bed and sneaking out.

I remember dancing with her by the bathroom of the nightclub.  She doesn't remember, though.

I remember asking him to 'repeat that in spanish'.  I wish it sounded as beautiful when I said it back.

I remember waking up that morning and not remembering.

I remember the way the bear-skin rug felt under my feet and being too ashamed to admit wanting to sleep on it.

I remember sneaking to the bathroom after church on ash-wednesday and scrubbing my forehead.

I remember bleeding.

I remember giving birth to triplet girls in a dream.  They were his.

I remember meeting a boy named Ian at a hotel in Providence.  He told me I saved his life.

Poems.

imagine all of the lines
that just don't fit into poems
they die on computer screens
and in minds
blackberry messages
love letters that never make it to the lover
they sit quietly in facebook statuses
and in cookbooks
or fade off into the headboards in motel rooms
whispered into dark skin on top of sweat-jewels
there are poems in every breath
shhh, listen closely
the rhythm you hear
in the padded steps of the tabby cat
will radio-rock our babies to sleep
and the beating, banging, bumping pulse in your neck
the tick-tick tocking of the clock
the squeal of tires
hissing teapots,
carrots boiling for soup on top of the stove
will have us dancing under glittered ceilings
in underground dance halls
where the poems never die