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Poetry || SubmissionsFive Poems by Mia (Editor, Tryst)Snowfall in Berlin Snow falling in slow succession kohl landscape, a chalky blur thoughts shoved in empty pockets lost in the depths of all that quiet hollow falling, falling, away where nothing can hold on. Wandering Through the Catacombs of Rome I wade through this vast fog of mourn collecting spirits by the vagabonds wearing holey shoes and wonder what soul has not been plundered, sacrificed for the sake of righteousness: beliefs that might have mattered then; and, what was then does not matter now now, that the sun has turned into a city now, that the moon is a winding pavement along the River Tiber and earth, a funnel of traffic above this cave of umber emanating secret mildew slippery flesh and softened bone. Mother Tendon I have been to this precipice before. See how small bones lie at angles left in their fallen state, bleached beneath a mound of feathers in a breath of forsaken flight. I will not fall again, though my death names you. This is my life now and you cannot claim it - no matter how much you love the child, who lies at your feet, looks abruptly down at her hands clutching air. Hear her silence, save for the wails, and the awful tearing sounds you hear at night where she has gnawed away her fear to bare knuckle. Relinquished I know you can’t always understand how people just give up any more than I can explain how the sky presses down on me until I can’t breathe, can’t for the life of me rise out of that vault. No door and no one to rescue me, save for this loneliness which doesn’t argue, which won’t scream, which doesn’t hit and can’t hurt me in all the places that already hurt. Sometimes I don’t know what I want--to live or not to live when I can’t tell the difference anymore. Awake all hours of the night staring up at the same low-slung ceiling caving in; meanwhile galaxies swirling in a batter of milky dough too far away for me to comprehend where the infinite begins and or ends then, everything I’m supposed to feel feels so insignificant. Sometimes daylight holds a knife to my throat, tells me to move move anyway and I do, then I walk up and down the Avenue my steps trotting ahead searching for a friend, the left boot the missing glove, my face among faces swimming upstream downtown where thrift shops spread their wild seeds at night sprouting weeds of discard and discontent forsaking sentiment The hotel across Main Street no more than a half-way house where thieves, kings and whores of the usual order come and go muttering monodies no one understands or makes time to hear the Christs among them reciting Dante’s Inferno up and down Sinners Hall in and out of alleys to and fro across the tracks what do any of us know of saints and sinners? I have watched the mangy doggerel following its own smell fortunes found, fortunes lost heirs to millions who cry and leap chasing the windswept dollar down the gutter, the deutschmark wheeled off in barrows along narrow escapes of boroughs falling down in disrepair. I, who have seen empires rise and crumble the shattered windows twisted up in wrought iron the bolts, the fire, the blood and graying grief turned to rust Rabid and savage begging for lead mercy I have gone mad up and down that single highway San Francisco to San Diego all the cities’ fences lawns tombstones laid out in precise rows El Rio, have I been here before? I have been lost and turned around made my way back again what should have been half an hour cost me midnight past expired on a train bound for nowhere Out of city limits, out of cigarettes, a fugitive in the window, ‘twas then I saw the poem of myself staring back at me and I did not care I did not care whose clothes I wore, I did not care who I might’ve been I did not care who I might become. I had found freedom was not “yes” was not “no” was not a raised fist, but a choice. No longer angry, I turned myself in. Magenta dreams i. &days like this  Why when the smell is enough to hurl you back into the encapsulated areas of your country Which now exists strictly in your power to recall the smell of cat food like unwashed bodies fleshed out in summer heat is unbearable Emitting graphic visions of hunger until the eye is victimized by compositions of the self harboring Magenta dreams as in free verse playing off of onanistic tendencies "a small matter of death"-you say no - a requiem for self made love Though masturbation is acceptable these days not so, those ugly poems back then - deviant anomalies under the gray light of solitary confinement Whydo these dreams die? remember me when I was fourteen along the banks of the Cuyahoga River fishing for daddy's praise so far and few in between a glimpse of silver-finned promises larger than the lake they could fit into netted by briar'd thorns catching blue minnows the size of a man's penis and just as threatening hardly worth the bait it was condemned to bite squirming vigorously nonetheless penetrated itself onto the cruel hook. ii. He said throw'em back in "too small-has to be at least the size of a man's arm to keep" although the minnows never grew to your expectations they still can be hungry and fourteen years of effort were thrown back in reluctantly wondering about the other 1.2 million flagellations that never had a chance rotting in curlicues of albumen 'tis days like these When the rain sounds like fish frying and the smell reminds you of daddy's fist cutting off the heads of fish too nervous to slit your own throat at its terminal edge you threw yourself onto the sickled moon. iii. Remember me when I was dragged up from the bottom of the muddy river sorry piece of pale flotsam I was mistakened for but not to worry I was beautiful through it all struggling vigorously in majestic convulsions until the blue artery snapped scarlet verses which never licked your lips came gurgling out of magenta's death these dreams Were meant to die.Editor of Tryst, Mia has been writing poetry most of her life in between traveling, sculpting, painting and sleeping. She graduated from the University of Texas at Austin with a Bachelor's degree in English, Creative Writing. Her work has been published in 3rd Muse, Atomic Petals, Comrades, Cayuse-Press, Little Brown Poetry, Kitty Litter Press, Lotus Blooms, Mipoesias, Naked Poetry, Paumanok Review, Snow Monkey Press, Three Candles, Wired Art/Wired Hearts and others. Contact her Today's Situation
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