1
My mouth is a fire escape. The words coming outdon’t care that they are naked. There is something burning in there.Andrea Gibson
2
The nutritionist said I should eat root vegetables. Said if I could get down thirteen turnips a day I would be grounded, rooted. Said my head would not keep flying awayto where the darkness lives. The psychic told me my heart carries too much weight. Said for twenty dollars she’d tell me what to do. I handed her the twenty. She said, “Stop worrying, darling. You will find a good man soon.” The first psycho therapist told me to spendthree hours each day sitting in a dark closetwith my eyes closed and ears plugged. I tried it once but couldn’t stop thinkingabout how gay it was to be sitting in the closet. The yogi told me to stretch everything but the truth. Said to focus on the out breath. Said everyone finds happinesswhen they care more about what they givethan what they get. The pharmacist said, “Lexapro, Lamicatl, Lithium, Xanax.”The doctor said an anti-psychotic might help meforget what the trauma said. The trauma said, “Don’t write these poems. Nobody wants to hear you cryabout the grief inside your bones.” But my bones said, “Tyler Clementi jumpedfrom the George Washington Bridgeinto the Hudson River convincedhe was entirely alone.” My bones said, “Write the poems.Andrea Gibson
3
.when a war ends, what does that look like exactly?do the cells in the body stop detonating themselves?does the orphanage stop screaming for its mother?when the sand in the desert has been melted down to glassand our reflection is not something we can stand to look atdoes the white flag make for a perfect blindfold?yesterday i was told a storyabout this little girl in Iraq, six-years-old, who cannot fall asleepbecause when she doesshe dreams of nothingbut the day she watched her dog eat her neighbor's corpse.if you told her war is overdo you think she can sleep? .Andrea Gibson
4
Remind me that the most fertile lands were built by the fires of volcanoes.Andrea Gibson
5
The trauma said, ‘Don’t write these poems. Nobody wants to hear you cry about the grief inside your bones.Andrea Gibson