cracked open

crack open her heart and pour the thickened

liquid in a cup so I might sip on sadness pluck

dandelions from her hair scatter and wish her to the wind

finger the fine bones her inner ear vibrating silence

between us the stubborn bud bulldozed and paved

still finds a way to grow in cracked cemented spaces

push its head upwards towards the sun a single syllable

undone our words are final threads of an ancient quilt

exposed to air shredding there is there is there love

there the sky contracts expands at the whim of clouds

she parts and breaks a storm wets the east the south

the north the west of me I sip half empty her cracked open

©Ami Mattison, 2011


Previously published in The Maple Tree Literary Supplement, Issue 7, August 2010.

Flickr photo courtesy of GMA Lou

When she works

When she works

      she calculates

precisely how much she’ll charge

for tilting back her head just so and

kissing the smoke. How much

depends upon how heavy the half-empty glass

in her hand, how many times she must

suck the cigar, and how delicately she holds

it between two fingers and her thumb.

She knows by how long he stares

exactly what she’s worth, and she deducts

how much it cost to slither into the strapless,

yellow gown she bought on sale, to highlight

her hair as if it were sun-kissed, to paint

her lips the perfect shade of pink to compliment

her pale skin. Flawlessness is expensive.

But the big bucks rely on her stillness,

on how many minutes she can hold the pose.

It’s harder than you might think, which is why

she does the math, counts the minutes and the number

of times he blinks his camera-shudder eyes.

Wait for it, she thinks. Wait for it.

Perfect, baby. Perfect.

And there it is: the cash register’s ring.

Later, she’ll unwind—wash her hair,

do some laundry, sit in front of the TV,

balance her budget, and let curve

the barest hint of a smile.

©Ami Mattison, 2011

In response to One Stop Poetry’s Picture Prompt Challenge. 

Photo courtesy of Mike Roemer.

Anti-Love Poem

Don’t talk to me about love.

These words, I love you,

like stale, hard, heart-shaped

confections, boxed in pale,

pink-colored cardboard,

sicken me now.

These dusty, Hallmark card sentiments—

You’re my favorite,

My one and only,

Be mine,

I love you forever—

crumble with age

to thin, unforgiving pieces.

No, I don’t want your box

of chocolates or pretty flowers,

your candlelit dinners, your clichéd poems,

your undying devotion, wrapped

in small, pitiful ribbons.

Sublimation

I.

We crisscrossed the country

twice, stitching together a geography of home

from back roads and interstates,

and those mile markers between us.  

Along the avenues of Philadelphia, we were two

palms pressed together, fondling

renegade freedom in the cracks between

what we'd been and who we'd become.

We were intrepid, traveling winding two tracks

up a mountain’s steepest slope, until

we slid into a snowdrift, and

let loose our fear with laughter.

Atop the world, we were gorgeous, flinging

desire over crested hills into the fertile valley where

we imagined a hearth of stone and fire

and the fields we might unearth one day.

I had never been so in love.

Confess Nothing

Confess nothing

    when they ask

where you’ve been. How could they know

that alley where rats scuttled, moon-lit

among broken beer bottles and the stink
of dumpstered lives. How could they know

the metallic taste on your tongue
when he stuck the gun in and said,
suck or die. How could you possibly

tell them how you ripped red
from his unshaven cheek, shoved
kneecap to groin so he groaned,
and he hammered his fist in rhythm with
your hammering heart, left

you curled and curdled among the rot.

Confess nothing when they ask for it—
some description of his face, the color
of his jacket. How could you say

you had danced in his arms beneath fake stars.

Confess nothing then, when they shake their heads
and persist and insist and say you’re safe
when you know you are not. You are not.

Only later, when we sit in moonlight and years
have dusted your memory and beneath your hairline

the hidden wound has closed and become a scar,
unasked, you will say, I knew his name.

And you will tell me the fake stars and the alley
and you will say, I opened myself to it.

And I will try to convince you otherwise,
but you will shake your head,
press your lips together to confess
nothing of your innocence.


©Ami Mattison, 2011


Flickr photo courtesy of dcJohn

The Defense

Begin with the slash of her

scabbed lips.

Notice the negative space

her cheekbone, its blaze.

                                               

Now, look into the pupil,

squinting from swollen lids,

rainbow of a bruise beneath

her lashes where

a curled hand hit home.

She is somebody’s home.

She flaunts it,

juts a cut chin when

stranger’s gawk,

stares back.

The doctor,

the cops,

the social worker—

they say she’s got to press charges.

Why would I do that? 

And the slash curls.

    

You should see him.

Flickr photo courtesy of Alice Popkorn

Family Car

In the backyard, the rusted red Mustang

is propped on cinderblocks, wheels missing.

Daddy swears he’ll fix it, have himself a sports car.

Mama suns on its roof. Her body oiled

with cooking grease, she boils and burns.

Before the yellow-jackets take over the passenger’s seat,

my brothers and me pretend to drive it too fast

along those red clay roads, open it up on

Highway 65 towards Birmingham,

roll down the windows, turn up the radio, all of us

swigging co-colas, getting high on moonpies

and letting that Alabama landscape slide

right off our backs.

Otherwise, the car just sits among the weeds, until

we move to an apartment without a backyard,

and Daddy calls the junk man.

The three of us balance on the chain-link fence,

sip on Kool-Aid from Dixie Cups, and watch

our get-away car ramble down the road.