Asheville poetry

All posts tagged Asheville poetry

Ain’t so Real

Published August 3, 2020 by April Fox

(They tell us)

Real women have cuuuurrrrrrrvesssss

-Gotta draw that out real slow, let the word trace along the edge of the

Fat thighs, round hips, breasts like balloons every little boy

want to die in

Real women look after themselves,

legs like stilts that hold up the pedestal balanced there,

low flat belly, chest like a smooth wave in the ocean

sharp cheekbones cut like ice if you aren’t

Perfect(ly made; don’t tell me

that’s a real woman)

Anorexic overeater tell you hormones make the lady

but that facial hair they say to shave says otherwise,

now don’t it?

(They tell us)

Real women take care of their own, work hard, bring that money home and

ain’t no real women go away all day and leave her kids.

Real women stand up for themselves, don’t take no shit

get that dinner ready on the table when your man gets home

Keep him fed

Feed him good.

(They tell us)

Real women don’t belong HERE in this restroom

Real as the ache of not being seen,

real as the ache of being questioned every day, from the inside,

Who am I, and why am I here?

Real as the knowledge that power comes from the pocketbook

and that your breasts are weapons to be feared

even if

they haven’t started yet.

Real as the leaves in the hair, the rocks in the knees on a dark dirt road cause you need

a place to stay that night

and when you’re fifteen,

nothing feels like home.

Real as the blood on the sheets, the blood on the arms, the blood on your face

waking up in tears

remembering.

Real as the day long hours wondering why you weren’t made

like all the other

Real Women

with their fat flat asses and their sharp smooth hips and their

curves worn damp with time

erased

Real like knowledge

Real like the mirror, waiting to look back

And feel complete.

Coyotes (November Thirteen Twenty-Fifteen)

Published November 13, 2015 by April Fox

The night’s too dark to see, but I can

hear them

walking

in the field next door:

coyotes

their steps like broken straw, breath

I imagine

stale with the taste

of carrion

their cries a bit more

mournful

than before

as if they know that they’re no longer

the ugliest

among us.

After Life

Published October 20, 2015 by April Fox

Someday, it will be the end.

It will be over

and if you believe in Heaven,

I will rip you from your mother’s warm embrace

pull out the thick umbilicus and strangle you

with the only thing you ever

truly wanted

watch you fight the blackness that creeps into your eyes,

bursts of light, the sound

of rushing water

in your ears

the silence that welcomes you

home

bring you back

and start again.

Windows

Published September 28, 2015 by April Fox

In every window, there are shadows

tiny girls with paper hair and twisted legs

feet stuck out at unnatural angles

pointy elbows and crooked teeth

and eyes like telescopes, watching

everything.

They are armed with bats and chains and metal pipes

they are grown to ten feet tall

they are tongues untangled, mouths unclenched

they are smiles, vicious laughter

they are ready to unload.

They are cotton candy artillery shells

blowing up the world

aiming from the windows

and burning off their flesh.
   
 

Pillbug

Published September 11, 2015 by April Fox

I don’t care what you think of me,” he shouts
into his megaphone,
short fat body like a pillbug all rolled up and just as smart
words like stagnant water, they have
no substance
no ability to hurt
or to wash anything away

I don’t care what you think of me,” he shouts
garbled speech slowed down at the ends, sharpened by hate
but still
as dull as his head,
I don’t care what you think

but tell me

What do you think?”

And his insides must be slick as mud, rotten fruit and
the smell of regret, knowing
he was never anything
and in his head, the wires cross
short out the reality
the future like a blacklight
showing all the shit he’s done
showing all he stands to lose.

I don’t care what you think of me,” he shouts
sour tongue begs for a reaction, throwing epithets and hope
like a monkey throwing shit

I don’t care what you think of me-

I don’t.

Vintage Christmas

Published September 6, 2015 by April Fox

I have paid a thousand hours penance

for her spun silk hair and faded blue eyes

sliced my voice on the shattered glass of fragile Christmas bulbs

golden stars and sparkling orbs, blue and red and green

and touched with glitter

in the center of something plastic, the holy parents pray

over the lifeless molded body of the baby

with no eyes.

I could never reach the top

with the icicles I threw.

In the dark, the lights throw colors at the wall

and the threads that hold the past together

rot away and die.

The Latest Book

Published September 3, 2015 by April Fox

For those of you who are interested in such things, here’s the new book: a collection of some of my most controversial work, including “A Love Letter to Pat Robertson” and “Mother Whore and the Monsters on the Hill.”

As always, thank you for your constant support. I appreciate you all more than I can say.

Spine

Prom Queen [Not Autobiographical]

Published August 8, 2015 by April Fox

I never could have been the prom queen,

perfect hair and teeth and nails, smiling sweetly for the cameras

humble under my sash and crown and waiting for the crowd to blink

and offer up the chance to pull the flask out from between my legs

beneath the satin curtain

of my dress.

I was happy under the bleachers,

eyes ringed with black and breath sweet with cheap wine

not quite bold enough to be slutty, yet

not quite small enough to hide.

I felt the words slip off my tongue like I was dreaming

I felt the time crawl from my head and I was lost.

When the music died and the limo crashed and the town went cold and still,

I laid my face against the pavement

and danced till morning came.

Lost Dogs

Published August 6, 2015 by April Fox

This feels empty

as if the dogs have all gone home

and left us to our own devices,

on our own to deal with the

monsters and the maniacs

hiding in the shadows

and even with the lights all on,

the television blaring comedy and news into our deconstructed brains,

there is a silence and a darkness

that the hounds have left behind.

And in the stillness, after locking all the doors

and silencing the ringers and clicking off the TV

and shuttering the windows, and pulling down the blinds

in the air we’re left to breathe

we find our solace

and remorse.

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