Holding On
Dying
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.
--Sylvia Plath
I’ll call you he
says
in his best dial-tone
voice
hanging up
on the word you
My long-distance lover
uses up all his
words
calls me ‘’Sugar’’
before entering me
in his little black book
before slipping
into mute--
listens to himself
breathe
Heavy breathing is
an art
Holding holding holding
my breath...
is my
calling
I do it
with my mind open
and my legs closed
I do it
until I turn blue
I do it
until my bones
sing phosphorescent
through my flesh
Offline
is another thing
Offline
I stare at his photo
shiver in the
immense stillness
the missing
the letting go---
words rusting on my lips
as I slip hard
candy
into my mouth
and suck the receiver
Tonight
the phone rings and rinnnngs
sooooo
I almost mistake it for my
heart!
The reception is bad--
not the phoneline… but
his
I can hear it in his
voice--
it’s numbing
timbre his unspoken cool
and
I am haunted
by that long
distant voice
inside me
my little cell my hell
my prison
the voice of my little girl
that rings that dreaded bell
you should have
You should
have
waited waited
waited waited
waited waited
waited waited
waited
to exhale
waited
for him to call
waited
for this man
you’ve never met
Selfie
It’s not through healing that you will love
yourself
It’s through love that you will heal yourself
--Annabel Vizcarra
I
don’t know why they call it free association
I
mean… I pay 120 euros for the hour!
Well not
really an hour only 50
minutes
But
why only 50 minutes? Why NOT an hour?
And
how is it? that every moment of my
life now
has
become a snapshot a meme
every
moment a cellphone selfie!
So…here
we are… my therapist and I...
(he’s
the one on the left the rapist is the one on the
right)
here
we are
navigating
the subterranean corridors of my mind--
identity
anxiety madness isolation loneliness depression suicide--
the
usual suspects
Younameit been
there done that
Well
ok
I
haven’t taken my life at least not yet
only
taken it for granted
only
taking it to the next level
(I
like to tell myself)
Here
I am again on my knees
worshiping
at the altar
(let's
call it my altar ego)
worshiping
at the porcelain altar that is
vomiting
encounters-with-loss
into
the toilet
Say
cheese!
(Need
I mention…
all
the many hands
I’ve
thrown up into the air--
hands
of despair
hands
of protection
hands
of
surrender
hands
of deception)
Here
I am
making
my way through the labyrinth
throwing
open the doors of perception
peeking
in and out of recollections dreamscapes
closets
filled with ghosts of the past fears of the present
(nowhere
to hide)
Let’s
face it...
I’m
TRAPPED in my mind !
I’m
never getting out!
Even
my clothes complain
She
never takes me anywhere!
And
then…
the
endless mirrors
two-way
mirrors like--
It’s
not through healing that you will love yourself
It’s
through love that you will heal yourself
All
the mirrors have memories of course--
my
guide for one…
Others…
large small convex
distorted
ones like Fun House mirrors
or
the ones in insane asylums
(let’s
not go there)
broken
cracked shattered memories
through
the looking-glass memories
all
fragmented
like
my life
like
the lies I tell myself
like
the lens of my camera
Every moment a selfie!
Is
it time yet?
Ohhhh alright
alright
I
confess
there
ARE these secret places
where
I keep my intimate
wounds--
wounds
in the likeness of Christ and Gloria Steinem
weeping
wounds leaking
wounds
black
toxic holes I operate from and don't want to heal
(please
don't look at me like that)
some
...
I
I can't tell you...I'm too ashamed to say...
I
mean... these walls have ears you know
MY
OWN CELLS!! are hanging on every
word!
(talk
about betrayal)
And
yet
sighhhhhhhh
the
face we don't show
often
bares the truest reflection
Every
day I look into God’s Mirror
Every
night Death looks into mine
Sometimes
I scream
silently into my pillow
Sometimes
I want to forget
Sometimes
I can’t remember
where the pain is
coming from
Even
my tears are shaped like question marks!
Only
who is asking the
questions?
Is
it time yet?
Antonia Alexandra Klimenko was first introduced on
the BBC and to the literary world by the legendary James Meary Tambimuttu of
Poetry London–-publisher of T.S. Eliot, Dylan Thomas, Henry Miller and Bob
Dylan, to name a few. his death, it was his friend, the late great
Kathleen Raine, who took an interest in her writing and encouraged her to
publish. A nominee for the Pushcart Prize, The Best of the Net, and a former San
Francisco Poetry Slam Champion, she is widely published. Her work has appeared
in (among others) XXI Century World Literature (which she represents
France) and Maintenant : Journal of Contemporary Dada Writing and
Art archived at the Smithsonian Institution in Washington, D.C. and New
York’s Museum of Modern Art. She is the recipient of two grants: one from
Poets in Need, of which Michael (100 Thousand Poets for Change) Rothenberg is a
co-founder; the second—the 2018 Generosity Award bestowed on her by Kathleen
Spivack and Joseph Murray for her outstanding service to international writers
through SpokenWord Paris where she is Writer/ Poet in Residence. Her
collected poems On the Way to Invisible is forthcoming in
2023.
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