This is just a story.

1. Pillow Talk

I woke up this morning and you were a wet dream
That forgot it wasn’t supposed to be real.
I walked home still covered in the sugary grime
Of your flesh memory.
It won’t scrub off in the shower.
You’re stronger than soap.

2. Ebony

Heavy with the ink of one long perverted love poem I didn’t mean to write,
These pages scream, echoing like bells.
Do you picture me with black hair?

3. Siren Song

I got lost in you
While drowning on recycled breath
In the cradle between your shoulder blades.
can you remember a time when we didn’t do this?

We loved each other, didn’t we?
I’d forgotten.

4. Gods girlfriend

My journal is you.
I see it in the shuddery stilted way
I scraped my hand across the page.
(like a cup kisses concrete)

I consumed the cut glass validation you offered,
Cutting my lips on each caress.

I’ve been wasting time.
The ink knows.

Posted by Alissa McCourt at 6:45 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Ritual:

My teapot is chirping with resounding rings,
As if it is bending
And it will soon break.

This twisting noise escalates
And the water shrieks
In a cloud of injected smoke.

Boiling hurts.

Posted by Alissa McCourt at 6:44 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Cocoon:

I tucked myself naked into my bed
And I wished for the day when I could lie there
Senseless
Wrapped in the nothing of my blankets

But I am afraid to sleep.
My dreams are where I am most dangerous.

Posted by Alissa McCourt at 6:38 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Old Breath:

My grandfathers breath wheezes like a cat locked out on the porch.

This room is filled with leftovers and I want them reheated.
I’m not at home here.
The customs are unfamiliar, like a museum, I expect guards.

I’m attempting to navigate
with maps of old photographs,
the old stories.
I guess you had to be there.

I hear my sister’s fingers tapping a computer keyboard,
And I follow these clicking breadcrumbs home.

Posted by Alissa McCourt at 6:18 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Assorted Muffins: blueberry dreams

1.

In this dream
I am 10
The night is purple
I am running up from the yard to the garage door
It’s too dark to still be outside.
…
I approach the yellow door
And I see that blocking my way
Is an old woman
White, wrinkled like wet paper.
She is sitting on the broken step
She smiles at me, laughing oddly
Like a squeaky porch swing.
…
Two large grey wolves materialize from the shadows,
Her pets I assume.
They circle her in protection
land sharks.
…
I stand still and wait
My feet stick like flypaper on the grass.
The creaking laugh continues
Like crickets at night.

2.

In this dream
I am nowhere.
Floating on the breeze
I am bodiless.

I see 12 helicopters.
Like huge flying insects
Traveling over the ocean.
I watch from below
As they form two circles
6 of the outside and 5 on the inside
flying in opposite circles
around the center helicopter.

I look down
The water is pale yellow and flat
Like cellophane over rancid butter
Dark shadows undulate and appear
Giant sharks under the surface wait,
Swimming their own deadly patterns.

I look up again and see the center helicopter drop
Like a penny into a fountain
It falls. Hitting the water with a slap and disappearing immediately.
Metal food.

3.

In this dream
Its winter, I’m 7 years old.
I watch myself, like a grainy slideshow.
I’m wearing the blue parka
And the black gloves.
Its recess
I’ve wandered away from the playground
To play on a mountain range.

I look back
The playground is deserted
I am alone.
I run back, navigating the ravines of the icy cliffs
But my boot catches in a crevice.

The hill cracks between my boots
It opens into a deep canyon.

I watch the film stall,
Trying to guess what I will do next.
I did not know until now
That I am afraid of heights.

4.

In this dream
I’ve lost my sister.
I don’t know where she is.
I was supposed to be watching.

She’s on the roof of the building.
In order to get to the roof
I have to climb through a very tight tunnel.
A horizontal ladder
Flat on my belly.
I have to pass through this several times
Every time it grows smaller, compressing in on me.
My head keeps getting stuck.
I am claustrophobic.

I see her,
She is afraid and timid.
She’s the cat that accidentally got out of the house.
I do not find this odd.
She scampers to me
Rubbing her face against my sleeve.
Though she is as large as I, full grown, I pick her up in my arms.
I’m prepared to carry her down.

Posted by Alissa McCourt at 8:19 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Childhood: the bulky scarf

1.

In this memory
I’m 10.
My friends are giggling at the cafeteria table
They say an unfamiliar word.
I’m confused.
They stare at me in superior horror.
With the self righteous pride of a 9 year old female.
…
I know now that that the word was condom.
I know now what this is.
…
But what she described is imprinted forever in my mind
As a yellow plastic bag,
The kind you got at the grocery store,
Wrapped around a man’s parts like a bandage;
like a bulky scarf.

2.

In this memory
I am in grade school.
I am standing in a bathroom stall
Reading the graffiti scratched along the door.
I’ve been crying.
. . .
I come out.
Two girls are there
They have twisted tissue paper
Into a long jumprope.
They twirl it and chant
I play along, hopping to the tune.
. . .
The door opens
A tall figure comes in
And I step on the rope, It rips under my feet.
I associate height with punishment.
. . .
I take off running
Ducking under the arm of the figure
And sprint down the hallway
Ducking into my classroom.
Sitting in my desk, I stare at my hands,
I scratch a word into the hard faux wood surface.
coward

3.

In this memory
I’m in 2nd grade
My name is up on the chalkboard
It’s the only word I can read
So it glares out at me, flashing like neon.
…
I’ve done something bad again.
I don’t know what.
My name is written up there everyday.
…
I sit in my desk and wait for permission
To go use the bathroom.
Where I will sit in the stall
And convert my shame to tears

4.

In this memory
I’m in first grade.
I’m staring at a small white book.
Its thin, the drawings are colorless.
At the bottom are printed letters, words I assume,
In black bold print.
…
I squint at the markings
Even to my now grown up eyes they still appear as alien symbols.
Arbitrary markings.
I should be able to read this
But I can’t.
…
I attempt to make up the story
Based on the flimsy illustrations.
This one appears to be about the zoo.
I see cages,
And a deer.
My teacher stops me,
Telling me to sound out the word.
I stutter, getting the syllables right individually, but I mix them around.
They won’t come out in order.
…
Finally, I stop trying.
I stare at the pictures
Refusing to say a single word.
Even my tears are silent.
The next week they put me in a different classroom
I’m in remedial reading.
I have a disability.
…
I still say nothing.
I stare at the pages blankly
But as I do,
I gradually begin to see.
Words begin to float up out of letters
Arranging themselves correctly of their own accord.
Slowly but surely
Whole sentences emerge from the forests of shapes on the page.
…
I’ve kept my secret to myself.
My teachers think that perhaps I should repeat the year,
As to them, I show no improvement.
They snap at me in frustration and I leave my body in a daydream
Waiting for the end of class
When I can go home
And read chapter books
under my blankets
hidden.
This new language is private.
…
I started reading as I would later start writing.
Undercover.
Under covers.

Posted by Alissa McCourt at 8:14 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)