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Tomb
Category: Writing and Poetry
Our limbs wove together—threads on a loom. Yet our fingers carry a dead womb, an empty room, we hold nothing between us. Yes, we were briefly three, but never meant to be a family. » Continue Reading
Catherine Zickgraf
"Roll it up and pass it to me"
Poet
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Catherine Zickgraf's Blog Entries
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Transcend
Category: Writing and Poetry
She smokes in bed now when undisturbed by disowned hair coiled like snakes in her sheets, dusted with skin off her legs, or by ashes like cremation in her blanket ripples. How chill her calm, resting well in a mess, igniting a quick death or inhaling it slowly. » Continue Reading
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Burning Ants
Category: Writing and Poetry
I was immoral . You used to rod my soft legs. I’m older now. My eyes at your door this morning: you locked me out with the other strays, the don’t-belongs without homes. Your face shaded and turned up the stairs. You once splayed my hand over your stove so I would choose Heaven, dragged me outside, bone against bone— uncurled, broke back two fingers. My palm blistered as the sun fizzed. You thre... » Continue Reading
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Mirror
Category: Writing and Poetry
She finds her firstborn son. He appears in her Myspace search the day he completes his childhood. They share a cigarette on her front step (and quit together soon thereafter). They discuss his NA meetings, what it’s like to be an eighteen-year-old high school junior. She explains her hospitalization last summer— how it surprised her to regress at thirty-two. He leans in to wrap arms ... » Continue Reading
Passage Rites
Category: Writing and Poetry
You’re ten, trying to sit still but your blinks grow long. You’re following crumbs from pew to balcony, dropping bulletins to watch them spin. The exhale of noise and rituals of hymnals begin. You’d rather be zip-tied to the ladies room sink pipe. Your Sunday nylons with toe seams make your feet squirm in your flats. You’re thirteen, hung over, your eyes too full of sun. There’s s... » Continue Reading
Poem Unnamed
Category: Writing and Poetry
My weakness: I tell all my secrets. Living on front street, I glistened on stages. How easy to entertain with imaginary beauty. It didn’t click you received what I said. Fuck my reputation in big ponds and small towns. Lick my aura, I’ll tell my secrets. And you’ll love my dark spell’s beauty of imagery. You’ll hum along with the sound. » Continue Reading
Disown
Category: Writing and Poetry
I still bleed, cut from her tree. I’m sick again , I say . But he tears me out. Her voice withheld adds years in bed since the cutting of bond beg i n s . The bones of my arms are broken. He block s me from mom’s phone . When stems start starving their leaves, dying is some kind of agony. But s omehow I survive. » Continue Reading
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Safe
Category: Writing and Poetry
After 3 days free on the street, I was returned to parental custody. Then they punished me for my escape— age 13, to places safer than home, like a motel, a garage floor, under a laundromat table, like Dave’s kitchen eating rigatoni with his family— Father demanded I surrender the t-shirt I always wore, a souvenir from performing in the 7 th grade play. He claimed it symbolized my rebell... » Continue Reading
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Screw You All Who Are Complete
Category: Writing and Poetry
Normally, I'd snap pics right now through my computer, like pausing life in a mirror, but that computer is broken. No pic, then, can show me here bathtub-swimming in the sliver bracelet he bought me one anniversary he was home from the army. My hair’s tied up, the sides sliding out-- if I had the pic, I'd send it to an online friend so someone could appraise me as beautiful. I soak my s... » Continue Reading
Haunt
Category: Writing and Poetry
I visit myself in the basement sometimes. It’s layered more than four decades deep with bins and boxes of important stuff that has lain untouched for years. My younger spirits live down there with the dust and bugs. But I’ll never catch them to bathe them. I’ll die before I can mop under them. I have no idea how to clean up this pointless clutter that pertains to me. I should just have it... » Continue Reading
When She Hurts
Category: Writing and Poetry
Take her hands. Help her hold herself in when in pain, when her blood is running out of opiate to just a trickle, a drip, and she crawls from her skin. Remind her not to flinch. Help her walk off the harm of the meds. » Continue Reading
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Knots
Category: Writing and Poetry
You wake inside a pile of wire hangers. Triangles scrape at each others’ necks. You un-stapled your own wound after the edges seemed to fuse. Though you can’t un-sew buttons, seam rippers can always cut out stitches. When your fabric starts to fray, that’s when you’ll make your escape. » Continue Reading