THE DANCE OF TWO COAT
HANGERS
Something soft, perhaps
indelible.
Make sure the bathtub
water is cold to the touch,
but not unbearable--lean
into your body--
find your quiet space.
But first, the door must
be locked.
No one can disturb you.
The hangers, elongated,
stretch to the thighs,
its metal hard, your
skin pliant,
a mixing of fear and a
mixing of anxiety.
This is how some of the
things you care about
become things you can no
longer bear,
how everything can
change in a second
and fever on forever.
If the metal does not
find an entrance,
do not force it.
When you bend too far
towards your knees,
when you lose touch with
yourself,
if the metal scrapes
into blood,
if a cloud becomes solid
and a fog sweat,
listen carefully
to your eyes.
Tears are often
lifesavers.
Sobs are often the only
way to get out of the water.
Do not ever allow
yourself to drown.
Then
rest within melody,
thick breath, a shadow of whisper--
I performed this dance
once, and succeeded.
A best friend, no.
Before you leave this
evening,
be aware--and she
finally paused--
every dance you will do
from then on will be less fragile.
BECOMING
--Because of Melanie
Monterey Eyth
Who does a poet love
if not the poem within,
the rhythm and the image
standing near enough
throwing everything
off
balance, almost drunk?
Mining Peace
When I cried
my cries bruised the
wind--
when I sighed
my sighs formed crystals
in the rain--
when I tried
I discovered
mountaintops of glory--
but when I lied,
when I had to much
pride,
ice formed in my stomach
and then I found my
spirit guide
and my cries became
cries of joy,
my sighs the light
within stars,
my tries victories even
in failure
and each day began as a
rainbow.
Michael H. Brownstein's
latest volumes of poetry, A Slipknot to Somewhere Else (2018)
and How Do We Create Love (2019) were both published by Cholla
Needles Press.
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