dark

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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.

December 2013

Published December 13, 2013 by April Fox

ImageI found this hiding
in a corner
(dark and damaged)
where I left it
to stay safe.

The sunlight ripped my limbs off
trampled on my fingers, nerves still
raging
blinded me through
shuttered lids
burned my eyes
through lashes
melted off
like ice
Stripped my voice and left me
silent, hearing
nothing
but the
grace
that stopped my heart

There were cobwebs everywhere
and the spiders sewed me up
with heavy thread.

When the sun comes back
I’ll offer this
to you.

floor.

Published April 21, 2013 by April Fox

in the dark, fumbling for the lightswitch
like a drunk still wiping whore-red lipstick
from his crotch and breathing fumes of
cigarettes and stale whiskey on the doorman as he
tries to maintain some sense of
dignity
-the light evades, exhaustion wins
the floor becomes a haven, cold and hard
unforgiving, flat black tiles cracked around the edges
pretending to give solace
in the night.

25th of January, 2013

Published January 25, 2013 by April Fox

It’s been a while. Beloved’s father (who signs his emails, now, love, Dad, which somehow makes me feel a little more okay in a very much not-okay world) mentioned recently that I hadn’t said much lately. Sorry about that.

Sometimes there just isn’t much to say. It’s January. Cold and dark and fuck, what are you supposed to do this time of year but sit around and wish the sun would hurry and come back already? Things aren’t bad, inside this little nest I’ve built. I managed to survive my first semester of school after being away for many, many years; the little people are all well and happy and exhibiting the usual symptoms of extreme wonderfulness; I got a new job that I love, it makes me happy, makes me feel like I’m doing some kind of good for once. Love rolls along, as it does, collecting bits of things to remember when it’s late and the house is a little too quiet. Still, though, it’s January, and I can’t escape the chill. Outside my door things happen that I can’t explain, can’t comprehend, can’t bear to think about for more than a few minutes before I feel overwhelmed and afraid. Mid-December brought us news reports of dead children, and in our minds we saw them hiding, saw them cry and it was too much to feel. Someone I’ve known and loved since I was a child had to witness just about the most horrific act imaginable, and is left now to gather the pieces of her life and try somehow to put them back together for herself and what’s left of her family. People I love are hurting, and I’m helpless in the face of all of it. Life, as good as it is in here, is absolutely agonizing sometimes, and my only defense is to isolate myself, to curl up in blankets and to wrap myself in hugs and soak up every giggle, every sweet word, every chance I get to feel something that doesn’t hurt, just for a minute, so I can save it for later, when I need it. I don’t know when I’ll find my voice again, maybe later tonight, maybe not until the world thaws out and I can throw open the doors and force up the ancient, paint-jammed windows and let summer in, but until then, here’s something to tide you over.

There is no title for whatever this is.

this is why
in the middle of all the
deepdarkdesperate
chill
of winter
i am able to breathe

she says
you made me laugh too hard, mama
you gave me hiccups
and the voices of the little men
still trembly around the edges, not quite accustomed to the
timbre
that they’ve gained
rise sweet above the sounds
of breaking blocks and
zombie death
creeping through the walls

there is the smallest sigh of a touch
fingers brushing skin and as i turn away
i’m held there
safe inside
my life.

November Nine 202 AM

Published November 10, 2012 by April Fox

“I think I’m getting better,” I said.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“My head,” I said.

“Oh,” he said, “Yes.”

And I believed him, because that’s what I do

these days.

 

I still need him to keep the light off

sometimes

I breathe better in the dark

and sometimes every word

is forced out

through a haze of self-defeat

 

When I lit my hands on fire

the smoke was sage

in the lounge of some

poncho-clad hippie

 

I tore my voice apart.

 

“I think I’m getting better,” I said.

“Yes,” he said

and turned out the light.

 

 

 

 

Amendment One

Published May 9, 2012 by April Fox

i feel as if
amendment one
is being read by the light of a bulb
shining through the skins
of my family, friends-
my children.

how can you cry your careful,
scripted tears over the loss of a life
not yet started
and tell the child before you
that his life means less than yours?

pro-life, and yet you spit
your prejudice and bile into the faces of your neighbors
fight to take away
their right to life

how easy is it for you to waste your righteous hours
combing through the verses in your book
tossing bits and pieces into piles by the side
over here are things that we’ll ignore
over here is where we make the condemnation pile

you gossip in the grocery aisles
while you shop for pork and tampons
maybe lobster for the anniversary of when you stopped
fucking behind the back
of the god that you adore

dip your razor in the baptismal pool
round the edges of your beard
shave your scalp clean
watch your faith fall to the floor

wine-drunk in the mornings
cannibalizing christ and if his body was inside you
you would see where you are wrong.

slave-owner, whore
if i were bible-bound like you
i could whip you while you cleaned my floors
then sell you for your meat
so your body could be violated
like your conscience must have been.

arthropod love song

Published April 27, 2012 by April Fox

An oldie that’s going in the new book, which is coming along nicely… almost all compiled, I think.

arthropod love song

you, by virtue of
proximity to the dark and the
flames that we tasted
charred sugar on slow languid tongue
won
something
else
worm-silk, spider-silk
sneaky arachnids
we hid in the cracks of the walls that we made
out of cynical metaphor
waiting
for time
to catch up
poisoned, we ate them all
tossed out despair, crumbled weak
exoskeletons
made them glitter, their shells
decimated under
the sun.

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