Think of the fireflies
when you’re ready to
leave this all behind –
maybe all joy has left,
your bones feel buried
already – family, joy in
your wake, mornings
of grief, tears, waiting
for moments to bleed
past into the next, but
think of those fireflies;
you had forgotten them,
galaxies burning, dying
over and over again out
lonely in the tall grass –
you were eight, once,
what did you long for?
Don’t you have it, now?
Did you forget?
Author: Cameron Martin
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Fireflies
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Cardboard
Romanticize cardboard. Moving yourself in
between domiciles, bruises down your arms –
how many angles you can study a traffic light –Romanticize emptiness. The real deal; it feels
like clinical shock, catatonic on the carpet and
you’re supposed to care about curtains? But yes,romanticize screaming fits. Exploring the limits of
where losing it can take you – urgent care lobbies,
ECG rhythm strips prove broken hearts can still beat
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Call it Homesick
A “golden shovel” poem, using Christopher Tapp’s poem:
i am homesick
for a home that
I have yet to createAbundance is just a stuck accelerator and I
am all tire squeal, burnouts, heart race, I am
legend; that hole in my chest, I call it homesickcall them nightmares, waking or not, if not for
the pinch you could be asleep, but you know a
real terror when it arrives – know when you’re home
(you can see it in the eyes) but, you know all of thatyou know the tiptoe, you’ve tested those edges, I
can see it in your eyes. It took all that I have
not to mention it, give a knowing nod, and yet
it’s written across our faces, the sun reaching to
the corner of the bed, a peace I’ll never recreate
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Seashells
I should have been made of paper, instead
I’m just the paleness and fragility, cut corners
and folds – couldn’t I be unscrolled tapestry?
Or uncovered, a new Rosetta Stone, wrap wise
words around my body like ivy – then, maybe
someday I could be found, too, desired for
being the long-sought answer, storyteller –
this constellation of freckles and scars
could be holy, powerful, a new Zodiac –
I’ll tell you everything you want to hear, just
hold me close to you – read me to find those
apocrypha, give me all the terrors you hold –
I could have been ready. I should have known,
I could have moved the stars, the very fate
written into my skin. Could’ve written better
stories, some happier endings – did you know
there are safe footfalls across grief? I clung
chest-heaving on each one while I swam blind
across the chasm, I could have shown the way
so nobody else has to fall in – I’ve mapped these
dead-still waters, like when I was younger –
I collected shells, dug up treasures to dry out
in the sun, desperate to prove how hidden things
can be beautiful, too ashamed to drag out any
treasures inside me, hiding an opalescent underbelly
of oil slick rainbow scales underneath secrets and
shame – I should have been a hermit crab, instead.
I should have been an oracle – shackle me and
let me breathe in the smoke, I’ll face madness,
my jaw is clenched, anyway, I’ll bear the grin –
I should be given one shot to defy the fates
and stare down the gods; I could burn –
ignite the tapestry, fuel for the final push,
one last hearty bellow into the furnace and
I am brilliance, I am the first day, I am the last,
I am alchemy, transmuting blistering light
into memory – I’d be gone
but I’d win.
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Eulogy for the Living
Always, your smile was always springtime warm.
Taught yourself French with dozens of cassettes
borrowed from the library – you dreamed of Paris,
painted wide landscapes of deserts, adobo domes,
oceans, beaches; read Louis L’Amour and escaped
any chance you could – taught me shapes of words
too, you took me with you, for a while – all of those
memories glow sepia tone, they’re almost a home.I hope I don’t haunt you. Always I’ve wanted you
happy – how long I’ve sobbed for all of the love I
sent; hoping for ripples to echo their way back,
even as I child I could see you were riddled with
holes, gaps I thought I could fill – I’m sorry, mom.
I tried, and how long I’ve cried, self hatred flared
because I could not burn bright enough for you,
because I’m sure you sob, too – your sun has left
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Counting Footsteps
To be loved is to be seen, and
I’ll never let them look closely –
that’s when the shot is fired, I’m
a deer in crosshairs, rabbit running,
all tall ears counting footsteps until
I’m safe, I’m safe, I’m safe, I’m safe,
the pulse of my heart pleading, please
this time please let it be true – I wonder
what soft prayers do prey whisper while
waiting for the danger to pass overhead –
the tall grass listens, the wind carries to
mother god, cosmos, whatever cares to
listen, and if I must be your eyes then
witness this suffering, you gave me this
paper skin, crooked, bird-hollow limbs –
you made my heart pound and plead as
I cower in the dark hollows of my chest –
if that final, fatal stroke isn’t coming now,
then when?
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The Seventh Day
The priests were convinced – told us it was god
who built this world bespoke, bare hands and all –
six days to decide that yes, our hearts should beat
loudly enough at night for lovers to hear, breaths a
perfect fragile rhythm – it was god who made it so?
And as I whisper my prayers into that silent dark
I know the real miracle is that I can stitch myself
to this moment; surely you feel my fingertips as I
sew myself into your warmth, my hands weaving
back and forth, our breaths in and out, that soft
ocean crash of our embrace; every tear a blessing
as I weep for the impossible gift of each next beat –
if you listened to my shaking prayers, I’m thankful –
thanking god, thanking the quiet corners of a hotel,
thankful this happened at all, this happened at all
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Promises
In my mind I carry a worn Polaroid,
a scene, blue skies, my inner child and I
sharing a shady park bench, quiet and
watching the world go by, together.I’d be the one to break the silence,
but damn, kid, what can I say?
We persist, endure, yes, it hurts –
each waking, each brief dream –yes, Cameron. I am sorry. That
our name slides hot on our tongues
electric sour like licking a 9-volt,
and I am trying to turn it sweeter.We don’t become less afraid. I’m sorry,
the breadth of grief will only grow
deeper, wide and fathomless choking seas
of it, and we’ll tread water, kiddo –we’re good at it. Now comes the part where
I wish this wasn’t a worn photo, sad poem,
that we were past strained metaphor so
I could lean in close to you on the bench –whisper promises into your shoulder that
yes, we still sob for the violent wonder
of it all – just to be here, to lick the battery –
we persist. They never beat that out of us.I could tell you that yes! Yes, we cried
when the children danced in the aisles
while the fiddle played at church – trees
blossomed outside, as if listening, too –I would lean into you, Cameron –
our name sweet on my lips as I swear
that we are in this together – show you
how our softness was never a mistake.
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Loud
The self-help book said that shame and silence
are quiet companions – the corollary point being
you can fight shame by fighting the silence; but
I’m bad at reading rooms, and when I’m loudest –
well, people get scared.I’m the price for the joy, the longing and lonely
which comes after, the ringing in your ears and
not warm like fresh sheets, not a gentle breeze
I’m all hard ground, thin clothes, freezing wind,
the reckoning in the recollecting; it’s loud, butnot loud like singing, not loud
like contagious, sleepy laughter,
not loud like sunlight breaking through
morning blinds piercing the black,
I’m loud like heartbreak,
loud like a burn ward,
I’m loud like a bruise
but that just means
you’re stuck with me
a while, I linger, but
at least I am loud,
can’t ignore me, now
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Witch Burning
I know you’re still here.
This is the only way I’ve
ever kept captive audiences –everyone gawks at car crashes.
I’m written out naked, a diary left open,
so take all you need, here are my confessions:the pride of accepting you’re a piece
that will never fit – it takes you, whole, a
maniacal ecstatic joy burning at the stake,poems should be public square executions
so here are mine – I build my own guillotines,
and I adore demonstrating each deadly cornerbecause I’ve lost my taste for this life; slaked, gone
when I first found the words for it, unholy text
eclipsing dawn, a ten year old learningyou could leave it?
you could leave it –
you haven’t left it, yetthe fire is taking you
whole, you’re laughing, loud,
and you haven’t left it, yet
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Breath
Heart beats like a rabbit, but not a good one –
doc says I’m skipping beats, so I’m the rabbit
that gets caught. Sometimes I feel those fangs,
the sharp pangs digging in, just under my lungs –
I’m sitting still but my body is running a race, and
life is the predator stalking, circling in, circling in –
howling, and hungry. You can see it in the breath.
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Wisteria
For once, let me be the springtime blooms
and not desperate vines; let me flower –
all softness, a curtain of petals and
not those long grasping fingers
of gnarled woody branches
choking all the trees
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Overstayed Welcomes
The solitary answer that comes
listening to the silent streets
outside your window at night,
quiet broken by the gentle whir
of car tires, each set a promise –
anywhere but here
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And I Was Left
What was taken, when the house was razed:
The better parts of my childhood, daydreaming
fantasizing feral, figuring out how to be human
and jumping fences, strolling backyard beaches,
watching storms looming across the bay, those
thunderheads nightmares are born from, awful
and bountiful as the sun that would come after –
hiding places under beds, broom closets, even
behind that hedge where I’d smoke cigarettes –
no more grass, no more tire swing that gave me
my first concussion, no more fence out front
that chipped my eyebrow, no kitchen cupboard
that scarred my nose – I knew which of those stairs
creaked, how to pry the back door’s deadbolt free,
and every single shadow and quiet place knew me –
we would sit together in the silent dark, like praying.
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Salt
It was deliberate.
I burned the ships –
cut off my retreat back to your dementia,
before I chose contorting into that chasm
inside your heart where the love belonged –
was it always me? Is that why you miss me?
If ever I turned on the light, in there,
would any of you still faintly glow?
Still I turned back! I turned back,
I stranded you on the shore – the
chasm in my heart ached for you
so I turned, because fuck salvation –
I am the proud pillar of salt you see
blowing away; did the wind carry
my voice? You are loved, forever –
were you running from this ache?
Did you see me turn?
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String Theory
I’ve read string theory – there’s enough that makes sense,
like how my waveform also collapses when I am observed –
don’t perceive me; then I’ll be everything, just possibilities,
because heartbreak’s all hard edges that cut – you can’t harm
ideas, and you can’t touch me when I never was, don’t worry –
maybe I’m invisible but I’m everywhere, you’re a part of me,
I am in everything, do you feel me in the air when you dream?
I am your breath, I am a thought, I am a wave, I am long gone –
I never was, I am a part of you, I’m with you always always always
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Treading
Whenever hands reach out
they’ve only pulled me down –
it’s like how my mom and dad
would drive to visit with boxes
full of garbage, broken tools and
old mementos – oh, they’ve always
written such devastating poems;
all the ways they couldn’t love me,
the gestures they could have just
written down, ideally, but instead
here’s your junk mail, that broken
trophy from high school – do you
remember? Do you remember us?
floodwater already up to my nostrils,
I’m gasping, spluttering back to shore,
catcher in the rye shouting stay out,
save yourselves; I will be fine –
all I know is treading water
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Stained Glass
It’s not as complicated as we’re making it.
I think it always was supposed to be
all accidents, that we’re just spilled milk
and the sum of the tears that came after.These arms can hold so much, you know –
each failure fuck-up fracture frailty falter,
fingers gently, carefully carrying each piece,
I’ll hold every single one patiently in place.Tell me every way that you’ve broken; show me
your scars, bruises – I’ll reveal all of mine, the
cigarette burns, the scar raked across my nose
I got when I was three; all the ways I’ve bled –it’s sacred, you know. We’re mosaics, queens
and kings of kintsugi, cracks shining golden
bright; each time we shattered is a sunburst.
You were never broken. We’re all stained glass.
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Linger
Please –
linger like the ache in my bones,
stay with me through the night –
keep me restless, ecstatic, whole.Your hand is still in my hair, your
fingers making indelible marks –
you’re still with me, today, I know –you are the wind at my back, steady
and gentle, pulling my sweater taut –
an embrace, wrapping around my waist.Please –
let me linger with you, too – let me
be all the sweetness across your lips
keeping you contended and whole.My arms are around you, still –
can you feel the warmth when
you’re alone? I am with you, then.I am the music filling your home –
the gentle weight of your blankets
pressing into you, naming you mine.
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Missed Calls (1)
Hey, mom, I missed your call
because you’ve been blocked
since the pandemic, because
talking to you is like sparring
with angry bulls, all terror and rage
and mom, I’m fucking tired.
If you want the updates then
everybody is still alive, but
you wouldn’t recognize anyone –
we’ve all grown so much while
you’ve been storytelling, fables
of your victimhood you’ll spin
for anybody you can corner,
because I’m going to keep
missing your calls – every one.
If it helps you to sleep I hesitate
over that [Call back] each time,
like daring myself to reach out –
snatch a hot pan from the oven,
because, mom, it’s true, damn it,
I’ll burn myself for love, add scars
to say hey, mom, I wanted to call back
and I’m sorry I missed your call
and mean it
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White Noise
I’m not here. I’m all whispers and no will –
the groans of floorboards settling, creaking
sweet nothings to you three in the morning;
I speak the most freely when I feel alone.Pay me no mind. Call me white noise –
and nobody invites cobwebs to brunch,
I don’t need those riches; I’m not real –
pretending to eat like feeding a broken doll.I’m best regarded as a trick of the light,
no one should see this empty birdcage
of a skeleton, a gray tired face aching
from holding this rictus grin –just let whatever you’ve pictured of me
win, instead. Picture me whole and happy.
I’m a better friend when imaginary –
picture me close to you, always; or far –whichever you’d prefer
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Double Binds
Take these hands, I’ll show you
the safe places to hold on, how
to work the door handles quietly,
I’ll tell you where to step, and when;
which floorboards won’t creak.There’s no surefire way to disappear but
I can show you the next best thing –
how you can make yourself so small
that soon, you’ll lose yourself, too –
vanish into the very carpet fibers,
dissolve into dusty HVAC air,
crashing through the vents –
Don’t you wish you could be those plumes
of exhaust steam floating over rooftops?
I’ve never made anybody much warmer,
have you?Take me by the shoulders. Shake some sense
into me. Strike this face, snap me out of it –
beat my chest and start this heart again,
hard enough to break the ribs – while you
hum some song to keep the right rhythm
whisper all the notes into my ears – help me
learn how to slip away
without being alone.
First me,
then you,
I promise –I’ll come back for you
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Interrogations
Tell me, wasn’t this love?
My hand on yours, those songs
on our lips back in your dorm room
when you first thought that maybe
I could sing with you, foreverAnd who will know you, now –
steady your shoulders when the grey comes,
steal your blankets at night and encroach
upon your pillows? Which side of the bed
is yours, as we stare up at separate ceilings?Tell me, didn’t you feel it too –
how we jig-sawed together, at times,
when your ear could rest against
my racing heart – isn’t that love?
Were you frightened of what you heard?Was I like trying to love a storm cloud
that vanishes once all the rain pours out,
or fragile like an ice sculpture, hissing and
cracking under the heat of your sun –
and what is left for us, now we’re done?If love was enough we’d be lounging, fanned by fronds
fed the ripest fruits, basking in the warmth of all of it –
singing in your Volvo, the steering wheel always shook
and I’d hold your free hand steady; wasn’t that love?
You’ve seeped into my marrow; I carry you with me
always – isn’t that love?
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Snowballs
My son asked me how I can pack snowballs
without gloves; aren’t you cold? Doesn’t it hurt?
So many unspeakable answers for him, like –Because soon life will hurt you in ways
that make cold hands just spilled milk –Because after the needlestabs it all goes numb,
maybe into that same gray my mind sinks, at night –Or because pain is feeling, kiddo, and I’m desperate
for buoys and life rafts while I’m treading water –Instead, I pass the snowball into his gloved hands
and reach back into the bank, stinging rosy fingers
scooping snow to pack another, and I tell him –It’s okay, I can take it – I don’t want you to be cold.
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Drafts
A text I’ll never send:
How I wish this body of mine
wasn’t a challenge to you,
or how I wish I could call
and tell you just who I am
now, without you worrying
what you’re owed, instead –I’d share so much
if you’d let me, if I
didn’t dread how
you’d talk right over me,
look right through me,
no matter how much
I’ve pled and tried to
even send a text, just
something simple as:You hurt me
I miss you, anyway
CALL ME BELOVED 