The House Spider In My Window Is Resting For The Winter It Is Her Second Year Here She Might Not Make

I am haunted By a world Where you No longer Exist

I am broken By such an Intense Lack of You

There are many places where

May begins as winter And ends as summer

I wonder if that's Hard on a month,

To always be in transition

Ashes to ashes I'll get your ashes next week And hold you as dust

I slip into my skin Like slipping into A favorite sweater I am the nurturer Inside my own body A home and hearth Tranquil and secure My body is a warmth I am warm here I am so very warm

I will be whatever you need to see in me today, My body a canvas open to interpretation. Here I am soft, delicate as silk; There I am sharp, rugged as stone. I am shifting, gliding, reshaping myself, I am swimming through the waters of my gender, Moving from room to room In this house I am calling my body.

But I am twisting in the hallway, Arms and legs spilling through every door; I am too much at once and so never quite enough. Tell me what you want, I will shape myself to fit. Make me compatible with your desire Until I forget the shape of myself entirely.

(In your rejection I’ve flooded our home, Drowning in the rooms where you once wanted me.)

What is the usefulness Of regret? When the days and months Move ever forward And moments passed Are like photos, Some were not taken As well as others

There is a Transcendence in The letting go The long farewell to Yesterday's bowed head Presently washed clean, Hung out to dry In the ever persistent Cleansing of sun

Why wish for any decision To have gone another way? Would the lines On palms, in diaries Have brought us here If we made a choice With our head Not our heart Or simply on impulse?

Sometimes I ruin what I'm trying to say by Making use of Too many Words

The church bell chimes Eleven and I count One, two, three, and on And then after the last The soft cooing of an owl Plays above the forest Echoing across the sky As if to outplay the bell To claim this simple land For itself as it sings Every one of us to sleep

Now I am furious with you, You, Who called me your everything, Your soulmate, your most Important person while you Slept in another's bed. You, Who whispered so seductively, Playing your hand of greed, Bluffing with clubs When I Thought you held hearts. You, Who made me feel stupid for Hanging on your words, As if you were used to Your vapid lovers begging. You, You are the one who is so vain And so selfish to tell me What you don't like of my body, To make me feel undesirable. You, Who are not above anyone, Yet chose to make me look small And cut off my air Because you were done breathing. You, Who mistook me for a fool Because I acted like one, Because I fell for your words When they were a trap. You, You will get nothing from me, Not my anger, not my ear, Not a chance of redemption, I will not hold our memories. You, You will feel my wrath in The form of my absence, My cold silence. Now that I Found the voice, You had stolen from me Along with my self respect. Now I am furious with you, Boiling with rage, It is I, I who am the beautiful one I who am desired, I who am lovely, I who am worthy, I who am stronger than you, I who am making this choice. Now that I am furious with you, The spitting of venom cathartic, I am finished. I abandon you. I abandon us before I Become just as heartless.

This poem got away from me How cliche It's something all poets will say So am I a poet at all? If I'm just letting the words fall Where they may?

(I wouldn't describe myself that way)