Search
  • Anxious Poets Society

Bring Me Back My Body


You promised me this dress could contain all the blood I had to give it, rivets inside the rivulets, city itself a neighbor grandfather says not to talk to in the fields. Iron never gave us anything but swords, sharp wits and misfits and glass inside the mind like memories. Tell me about what is broken or a doll’s head, how only at night it yields

don’t let me know we’re invisible

You said in earnest I need to be honest with myself about what honest means from a tower. From the spire, a singing in the underbrush dark as minor chords, twine in our throats we found thrush eggs and threshed our backs with their breaking, less shatter, a cracked maze of lines like time through parchment. And time tells us to go back, but all the while it gloats

don’t let me know we’re invisible

Dance in our tibias and fired femurs never healed my hips fill a coffin inside a tomb inside what is behind. Can the pupils on the wall please stop staring? Can the clarity find what it’s hunted all along? I hear canned laughter beyond the walls and idiosyncratic tumors fill to bursting with marionette smiles, a while comes and goes in the wind which contains more wind. All the while and all the while, more of this dark becomes clear

Clear as a file, promising my nails the distance of songs. Clear as a limbed and tragic kind of cacophony a prophecy only good as the moon’s melancholy A melancholy only comforting because you let it twist, holding your hands, asking a prayer, staying host a while spired and watching, visible as a watcher’s ghost

don’t let me know we’re invisible don’t let me know we’re invisible

 

James is a queer (they/them) poet from Scottsdale, Arizona, currently finishing their undergraduate degree at Northern Arizona University. A musician as well as poet and fiction writer, James has a history with anxiety and depression, and they hope the reader finds something familiar, and hopefully healing, in their work.

#blood #glass #mind #broken #night #tomb #hands #ghost #melancholy

40 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All

blank paper sheets waiting to be filled on the study table, she picked her pen up every ink burst’s her spell word by word, she started weaving kingdom—her utopia. before her eyes, an ethereal scenery

More powerful than a locomotive, able to leap reality in a single bound, it’s a nuclear bomb, it’s a super computer: it’s the age-old strain of virulent addiction. Once in its ravenous and raptor claw

I am no Dostoevsky breathing deep-darkly the depths of Heaven and Hell, evil & good; just someone lurching through a semi-surreal life broadcast in secret code to no one at all, a grotesque living to