For my cousin, Chris Goldrick

Lacing my skates
after walking two miles
in girl-strictured delight
Mom's stories of Sonja Henie--
No, not ever

Lacing my skates
with  snow-ball pompoms
felt skirt
and nylon tights
Cute little hat with matching scarf
My thighs and fingers
already freezing
icy burn
from miles on foot

to get there
the lake where--

I must get out
I must get OUT!

Knowing what
to expect from my body
the quick-twitch of muscle
Could always sense
specific--
gravity of water    
at 22 degrees

Desiring to feel
the motion between ice and steel
Read speed's vibrations through my body
The brain registers relation
to weather's effect
Tell of velocity
possibility of fall
Feel the slash of the blades beneath me
Throw my weight sideways, sudden
to hear that furious hiss
An object in motion tending, dire
to stay in motion

Threatening to stay there
always
in its heights-- of speed
away--

from the crowds of skaters
swirling distant in the lights

Seeking instead
the farthest reaches of Porter Lake
speed and speed and more
to overcome
inertia
of what it is to become
undone

at the outer edges, of humanity
A force  
centrifugal unto myself

Avoiding

Pregnant and slow
with years and babes....

The best
must be broken and tamed
of what it takes to stay free

catching the edges with every stride
catching my toe in the quick
180
spray of frost
to the sudden still

Listen to the frigid chill

and the heave of my breath
tumbling into evidence

Gliding
Once

Forever--

on, into darkness
of woods on frozen water

The wildness of it all

So infatuated with flight
so full of grace

I forgot Sonja

The moon rose
from her seat in the treetops
and applauded

Oh Muse! endow my verses like the
grease
which in a pliable state, straightens
the choppy motion.
Dear Apollo! enlighten my words like
the hell fire
that light gives, yet a sharp gaze
broils the eggs.
Oh wretched Hydes! weep but one
more time for me
for the constellation bears rain no
more.
Oh Jove! rain the one pacific upon me
for I will to drown myself today.
Ah flora! the color of spring has
blanched away
for the pompoms bloom ashen
Lovely Aurora! why you withhold
yourself from me?
She's glum with me, why trying you
too be?
Eye some Aphrodite! take care of and
preserve the winsomeness.
for the lass* knows no value, it has to
me...

Now the first leaves, golden,
Falling, fluttering tranquilly.
Breeze becomes wind,
A slight chill present.

Summer ending,
Fall in the air,
You can smell it, see it,
Touch it, even taste it.

Saturday, Freeway fills with cars,
Flags flying, team colors displaying,
Car Horns honking, people waving.

Mighty Ducks are beating their wings,
Getting ready, who could have known?
That Ducks having no teeth,
Could be so very ferocious,
Tenacious, combative, thrilling.

Tailgating celebrating,
Throngs of laughing people, moving
Pennants showing, blowing in the wind,
Through the gates into the huge arena.
Filling the stands, waiting spectacle’s beginning.
Band blares spirited tunes, people and
Students cheering, Ear splitting, the grandstands
Vibrating, spines a tingling, tension mounting.

Among great fan fare, the Gladiators emerge,
Regaled in colorful Costumes for combat,
Helmets gleaming in the sun,
Muscles bulging young men strut and pose,
In spirited pent up raw anticipation,
Soldier-players moving now as one,
As a well practiced oiled machine,
Each part supporting the other.  
Each knowing its own function,
Resulting in precise synchronization.
A time and place where boys become men.

Beautiful young women, under dressed,
Bosoms bouncing, pompoms waving
Add to the Circus flavor of spectacle rising.

Only a game? None in the bowl knows that.
No one cares to think so, it is more than that,
It is war, it is life, it‘s aggression without death,
It is pride without regret; it is a melding of hearts,
And expectations, of loyalties to a common goal,
It is a Saturday in the sun and fall air, a chance to
Yell and cheer for youth in flower, to feel and fear
An inevitable outcome not yet predetermined.
To ebb and flow all human emotions,
To hopefully all, end the day a winner,
Or perhaps display compassion for the looser.  
To feel alive, to participate in life’s cycle of living.

Football, just a game? Don’t you believe it.

The ice queen attempts to be more fact than fiction, but her eyes are covered in placenta. She can’t see through the burden of her mother’s expectations, the pompoms and Bible shoved down her throat at an early age.
The ice queen attempts to be more fact than fiction, but her eyeliner is smeared and so is the world. She’s always loved women, and hated herself enough to be with men. She’s always drowned out the protests of her own mind with liquor, finding refuge in the ability to ignore.
The ice queen attempts to be more fact than fiction. Is unsatisfied. Disgusted. Displeased. Dear Academy, for your consideration, would like a new self image.

Rickrack, got cataracts
My vision is so blurry.
Surgery done, not much fun
I wish healing would hurry.
Zip zop, roota zoot.
Hate backless hospital suits!
Clap clap, standing ovation.
For a successful operation.

Wave pompoms, ziss boom bah
For magic modern medicine
In just one day, as they say.
The right eye is all fixed again.
Go back in a few weeks
And have the left one done.
Huzzah hurrah and yippee kai yay
And the healing has begun.

Colors I never noticed before
Are now bright and shiny.
If I had known that before I
Woulda been petulant and whiny.
But, nothing noticed, nothing lost
I am looking forward to the day
When I can see completely better.
Harroo and blinking hurray!

i want
lavender beaches
strawberry bubblegum
willow-wood bed frames..
i want
sweet summertime
on crumbling tectonic plates
with my burlap baby..
i want
grapefruit pompoms
painted on my cheeks
telling stories in the fluorescence..
i want
everything
everysinglething
everylittlefraction

and that still won’t be enough.

The Tiara is back on the dresser.
My party shoes are on the floor.
The clock is well past midnight
And I’m the Birthday Girl no more.

My day was rendered as perfect
Everything went just as planned.
There were no major mix-ups -
A blessing from God’s divine hands.

The floats were created from magic
They were stunning in their appeal
The roses in so many colors made
It hard to believe they were real.

The bands each outdid the others
Their Tubas lined up in big rows.
The flag girls and pompoms were twirling;
Drum Majors were putting on shows.

The weather was cold in the morning
But warm in the late afternoon.
My tiara caught other’s attention
And that sent me over the moon.

We ended the day at the movies
To watch whatever was playing
“The Aquaman” was a debacle
That’s only if I’m kindly saying.

This birthday is etched in my mem’ry
A diamond among yearly pearls.
A treasure bestowed by a loved one
Who crowned me the luckiest girl.
                        ljm

on that call
you told me to die.
again and again,
you wished me a hospital bed,
breathless,
gone.

i froze.
like a locked house
with all the lights cut.

inside my stomach,
butterflies mutated into bees,
stinging me from within,
so i pressed my palm to the hive
each night.

cause i knew
if i crumbled,
nothing would please you more
than my ending.

ten days later,
you appeared.
no omen, no warning,
just there.

beside you, a blonde.
on you, the shirt i gave,
the same one your mouth
once screamed through
“Burn it all, Let it cave”

irony draped across your chest.
i hated the sight.
i hated you
like the shadow hates light.

my safe place soured,
my ground devoured,
the world smaller
because you walked through it.

your face, once rush
of butterflies near,
now swarm of danger,
a mask to fear.

two days later,
an email came.
an apology.
not for me, no.
for the record.
for your conscience.
for fear of one more enemy.

you cried to your big sister, you said,
for the cuss you spat at me.
how neat.

you get to cut,
then stitch yourself clean?
you get to curse,
then beg not to be cursed?

i let you call.
i wanted you bare.
and you spoke
“just a friend,
nothing there,”
seven years older,
a tour through the street.”
the same one my footsteps
first taught your feet?

you moaned,
said regret had swallowed your core,
but your mouth still hid
the dagger’s three-quarters more.
i listened.
i hated you more.

your email read:
“I’ll forever be rooting for your happiness.”
what a joke.

the same mouth that da*ned me to death
now waves pompoms
from the grave it broke.

remember how you spat
on the only faith i had?
my books. my words.

the ones you burned with your tongue?
don’t worry.
i’ll build a pyre of them
to burn you back.

and honey, don’t stress
i’ll sign the acknowledgments
to you,
via email.