Poetry through the Seasons of Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Toying with him,
like the dolls
who used to play
her children.
Lifting her skirt,
she tries to
draw him inside.
Fingers like birds
fly away, arms
dance in the air.
She pouts.
Feelings hurt
when not believed,
she plays her
torture game
until he’s bloody.
* * *
darkness and
silence ‘til
the monster appears
spilling our secrets
like your seed
on the ground
Dancing
the bossa nova
in the kitchen,
studying
in the library,
she comes to me,
the one who died,
the poet.
Not my love,
but one who says
she knows my love
now that she’s
left this world.
It is her voice
I hear singing
in my ear
late at night.
Darkness blows
through the door,
knocks out lights.
Only black and
white remains.
Are you here?
She knocks.
Are you okay?
She’s not.
I smash the radio,
but it keeps playing.
I smash the microwave,
but it explodes.
I cut my feet on the glass
and she speaks to me.
Her voice is clear,
then nothing.
My heart
an ancient hole
she cries into.
I feel her again,
the pain larger
than a limb lost.
Not phantom pain,
but real,
penetrating pain.
All sounds return.
Her voice,
the bossa nova.
She stands before me
in white,
a goddess
to my troubled life
after all the storms,
the hurricanes
that destroyed me.
But it was not
my love,
the poet,
my mother.
The dead are dead.
And I am on my own.
In a corner
on the floor.
Am I real?
Tell me more.
My mom is here,
but no, she’s gone.
I know she died.
It feels so wrong.
I’m dressed in white,
my arms are tied.
I know the truth.
They say I’ve lied.
That I am not
the chosen one.
No vampires fought.
No battles won.
A life created
in my mind.
I must believe,
they seem so kind.
My friends aren’t real.
My sister’s fake.
Destroy them all
and then I’ll wake.
My mom and dad
will take me home.
But she is dead
and he is gone.
Believe in you,
she says to me,
and as I go
her face I see.
I choose my world,
fake sis and friends.
Full of vamps
to fight again.
And if it’s not reality,
real or not,
I think it’s me.
Tiny feet
walk on graves,
bring her back to me.
bone
breath
flesh
smile
If magic could return
her to this world,
would I cast that spell?
Or can I believe
she has lived
her life and moved on
to other obligations,
leaving me
to find a way
to walk the earth
without her?
It’s okay to cry
and cry
and cry
because without her
all I am
is tears.
i breathe into her mouth
to bring life
as she once did for me
but she’s cold
like a lake in winter
please don’t hurt her
how can she be my mother
one instant
and the next
just a body
* * *
Grief is silent.
Grief is screaming,
lying in swatches of color
strewn around the room.
She will never
breathe
again
or, or
brush her hair
or watch silly shows on television
or fix breakfast
or worry about her daughter.
She’s alone now.
In a room
where it’s okay
to be cold.
Her hair
lies in quiet curls
against her head.
Her eyes focused
on family
I can’t see.
The dark corridors
of death
are lined with
my shortcomings.
I am lost and alone
in the space
surrounding her
missing life.
Real girls are spongy.
I bounce off them
and ricochet around the room,
leaving splats of color
on the walls and the floors,
dripping
oozing
spilling
into crevices and corners,
finger painting
the imperfect lines of their bodies,
wiping off the colors
to reveal the skin beneath.
* * *
She was a robot
for love.
A girl
made of bolts and screws.
The perfect woman.
Programmed to hug,
kiss and caress.
To always say yes
to his every whim.
Built to love.
Built to cook.
No baggage.
No needs.
Just pure devotion.
Even that wasn’t enough.
Everything he wanted
wasn’t really what he wanted.
And everything she had to give
really wasn’t enough.
I am blinded by your memory.
The waters sailed now make me seasick.
Do you think I like you in my heart,
gnawing holes until it hangs in lacy strings?
Love is strangling me, like a madman in the night.
Like an arrow in my back, love attacks me.
You slam love in my face like a door
and I choose to believe it means you care.
I see you in blue, all soft around the edges.
In the end, we’re all soft around the edges.
I can be good if you need good.
I can drown in good if you can swim.
My life
is a series of memories –
of mom in the kitchen,
of dad’s disappearance.
But they’re not real,
my memories.
All lies.
I wash away
like a sand castle
as the tide comes in,
leaving broken shells
and scattered seaweed.
Every story I’ve ever told
a myth,
a cloud drifting by.
Not a girl
who was born
and grew up
and can now die
of sadness for never
really being alive.
Beauty’s legend persists,
skin glistening after a bath,
in sadness, lies its head against your breast.
Hidden in the shadows,
a beast awaits to impose a deadline
when beauty will be gone forever.
He’s gone.
Three seconds on the clock.
The red wire
or the green.
Will I cut the right one
or will I explode
in tears
or in grief
over his departure?
No.
I’m fine
actually.
I took down his pictures,
but not because I’m angry.
Well, I am angry,
but not like I don’t want
to see his face again.
I’d like to see his face again.
It’s a good face.
Guess it was coming for awhile.
Everyone saw it but me.
Things I should have said,
didn’t see.
A trail of destruction
spread out behind me.
Like a god
with his hammer,
I destroy.
He asked me for a reason to stay,
but I was too long in finding one.
If you have to look,
the reason isn’t good enough
anyway.
I’m fine
actually.