The Heavy Scent of a Sordid Servant

Dear beautiful reader,

As you may already know, one of my biggest dreams is to be a published author telling stories like I do on here, but another (silent) mighty dream of mine is to be a published poet. And although I’m not typically one to beat around the bush or drag my feet— if anything, I usually trip from going way too fast!— I have been painfully dragging my feet. And for far too long.

I’ve been avoiding like the plague, writing poetry.

The gravitational pull of a song for me has always been, first, the melody, but its emotive lyrics are what anchor me to stay. Additionally, I have lines of poetry tattooed all over my body. On my inner tricep:

"And because I am happy and dance and sing,
They think they have done me no injury”

Words, especially beautiful ones, have always been my lifeline. As Mary Oliver says, “Poetry is a life-cherishing force. For poems are not words, after all, but fires for the cold, ropes let down to the lost, something as necessary as bread in the pockets of the hungry.” My art teacher once asked me, after having read my writing, “What if someone tattoos your words on them, one day?” I quite actually almost started bawling right on the spot.

The thought hadn’t even occurred to me.

But of course, as I was reflecting on why I’ve been stalling so much, despite being surrounded by the pages of Rumi, Audre Lorde, Pablo Neruda, Sylvia Plath, and even Bukowski in my own home, I realized it’s because it matters so much to me— it terrifies me. That I won’t be good. That I am not qualified.

When I was thinking that exact thought, I mindlessly picked up Devotions from my couch and pressed against its spine to accordion the pages— it landed on one specific page. One of Oliver’s most famous poems “Wild Geese.” The first lines read,

“You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.”

Both a synchronicity and a reminder. Keep going. Anyways, this month I finally jumped and wrote tons of poetry for the first time in eight months. Here are a few of them, I am actually pretty proud of them.

And if you needed a reminder today, then that is yours, too.

I hope you enjoy.
With gratitude,
Amy

Dog Walks

Jacaranda bright purple blossoms and 
squawking green parrots in Pasadena
Six feet trot, trot, trot every evening 
just half past six
Monarchs by the handful swirl 
and 
swell all around
and it’s not even monarch season
Hummingbirds flutter, circle, 
then land on the power line,
in the intersection of the street
above the
wooden Little Free Library,
as I bend and peek to see 
what 
might be for me
Grand historic mansions—
from 1887 Victorian to 1904 Craftsman—
as I look from the chalked hopscotch
sidewalk,
it’s only a few feet from me,
The front door.
How to get from here to there?
She sniffs and sniffs, as I 
am reminded—
hey, 
it ain’t so bad 
being alive.

Maryland’s Daughter

She carries with her:
overgrown nails and 
yesterday’s present,
the heavy scent of 
a sordid servant,
and the contentious weight 
of artifice:
a diaphanous laughter 
above a screaming lonesome

Mhm! Uh-huh! Mhhhm!!—
cloying high-pitched 
squawking 
to parrot all of me
Use big words in all the wrong ways
What a belligerent waste of 
an identity

She always refused to take me off 
the plasticky pedestal,
even when I pled
so finally, under my own volition,
step 
by 
step, 
I 
climbed 
down the 
rickety 
apparatus

Beads on my temples, 
absolutely winded by the 
descent to earth—
though I am in pretty good shape—
I was mortified by the discovery of
how high 
she had built it

And I wonder—
Does she know to ever experience the sun 
with a little darkness
or ever, the darkness 
with a little bit of sun?
Always black /or/ white
Cannot fathom a brand new slate 
of perhaps— slate gray?
or graphite?
or pewter?
or smoke 
with a tinge of
lavender 
and maroon?

Instead, she only knows to breathe in 
smoke
screens 
of the haunted spirit
As you know—over two years ago—
she gobbled up every last 
morsel 
of the store lady’s deceptions
and robbed us of our seven-year feast
and somehow still managed to point 
her nasty little 
overgrown talon
at 
me

Once, and twice, and thrice,
I looked in her eyes and only ever saw magic,
but I suppose, for my last trick—
I shall pack up my dove 
and black rabbit,
bestow upon her 
the vanishing imprint 
of a love
lost in fear,
and simply

…disappear

But she can stay to contort 
for the audience
one last time

I did manage to cut our cords
What transpired—
Six seething flames of 
despondent codependency
Almost burned my desk down
Blew them out just in time
Still— the table’s wax coating melted off
as did all of her “the sky is the limit!” talk 

Untz! Untz!
that one summer night,
her eyes landed on the parking lot 
of neon lights 
and wounded minds 
synthesized 
by surreptitious synthetic serotonin
over the balcony apartment 
and said,

“When I see them now, I wonder… 
how many lives are 
Escaping?”
And I wonder now—
In the neon lights, how many lies 
you must be escaping,
friend from a past life?

But still,
I’d never seen her so wicked
as when she willed our love to die.

Not at All

Ten years turns out,

He’s so woke—
the way Morgan Wallen is
He’s so emotionally intelligent—
the way John Mayor is
He’s so healthy—
the way Zach Bryan is
and he’s so progressive—
the way Texas is

And I? 

Well, I belonged to him 
the same way 
whales belong 
in tanks,
migrant children belong 
in capitalists’ cages,
or how transcendent 
(trans)women belong 
in
a male jail

For her—
light slightly bent,
her camera obscura
projects an image,
nearly perfect

A constant start-and-stall
faulty engines, not even of the car
counting pennies and 
Half-Penned 
Down-Sized Dreams—
it’s a Fantasy of Romances

It’s enough.

And so—
the dawn, 
it finally breaks
What a relief.

My heart had been right all along.

Kintsugi

Isn’t it funny—
I used to be so afraid of the heart
break 
shatter

But now that I’m kintsugi-brand-new 
again,
I kinda love the poetry 
of it all

There ain’t nothing like piecing yourself 
back together—
to be
polished porcelain 
in someone else’s hands—

all over 
again
and 
again
courage, 
freedom 
& Life.

Childhood Trauma

Once, right outside of my city apartment,
when I was twenty-five
a dapper older Black gentleman 
’bout sixty-five,
peeped under his fedora and remarked,
“That dog— real good-looking!”
I smiled in agreement.
He said, “but that’s also his problem:
he knows he’s too cute!”
He chuckled then crossed the street

I thought—
My dog, Komey, is real cute 
and Komey?
Sure, she knows she’s cute 
and she should know she’s cute

Isn’t it sad that some dogs don’t know they’re cute?

Some people call their dogs “Little Beggar!”
And I say with a swift smile,
ah so— 
you guys feed him human food?

Some,
they cruelly rub their noses in the soiled rug
But whose lazy, dumb ass 
didn’t take them out to the grass, 
every few hours?

Another time—
with a devilish smirk,
Diego asked, “What would you do
if Komey just, one day,
diarrhea’ed 
all over your bed?”
Like, oh, hee hee, how funny it’d be

With a somber mild pain, 
I paused
and replied,
“I would wonder if she’s okay.
What did she eat?”

His smirk vanished as
quickly
as he was transformed.

They scream, “you menace!” 
when he chews the shoes
Who’s the real menace—
not bringing out an animal 
out to play in nature,
like some automaton
with artificial intelligence
neck hump 
the size of Manhattan

So yes—
Komey is real cute
and I make sure she knows she’s real cute!

She can stop and sniff whenever
well, of course, within reason
and in return—
she’s very reasonable

Because dogs—
They should know they’re real cute.

This poem isn’t about dogs.

Storms 

Ten years in advance—
shiny rain boots 
by the dozens,
windows boarded up,
instant rice
and Shin Ramen packets,
my mother plans for a rainy day
So much so—
it began pouring 
yesterday 
and now, 
what is the Point?
of even going outside.

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