A Garden of My Own: A Poem


He did not turn me into this flower.
His touch did not transform me;
it did not transfix me, nor fix me;
he did not make my petals grow.

I was not made new under his eyes.
He was not my discoverer,
and I was not his discovery.
I am not a perennial that he planted.

But the longer I watched him,
I knew he saw life inside me
where I had only ever seen a tangled mess
of roots and baggage.

And I pondered to myself, if, perhaps,
my leaves were worth the thorns;
for if he could find the way to my bloom,
then maybe the route was safe.

He was not an adventurer
who found the exotic blossom,
but rather a stop on the blossom’s way
to finding herself.


The Ultimate Summer Playlist: A Poem

tumblr_meawskv1GL1r30mgpo1_500 It made her feel like the sun,

baked sand and happy blisters,

hot but worth it.

It made her feel like a can of something sweet,

snapped open on the beach;

like cicadas,

whispering secrets under the moon;

like watermelon

and strawberries

and lemonade

and iced tea

and hot dogs fresh off the grill.

It made her feel like holding hands,

something she had never tried;

like kissing and blushing

and all the confusion that follows.

It made her feel like a blissful rain,

breaking the sky in two to kiss the Earth,

watching all of its inhabitants skip and glide,

laughing, breathless,

for umbrellas and shelter.

It made her feel like crop tops

and short shorts

and everything she was too timid to touch.

It was just a bunch of songs, maybe,

but especially arranged to create the perfect,


vicarious love

that she could never attempt herself.

Peaches and Strawberries: A Short Story

61352-Reaching-OutI used to watch my sisters as they made pastries in the kitchen. As I looked on, they would create a well in a plot of dough and fill it with strawberries or, should inspiration overtake them, peaches. When I was little, these fruits seemed immense––an unending pile of goodness, bigger than my hand, bigger than the universe.

I’m big enough now that those fruits dwarf in comparison to my palm. My sisters are gone, and sometimes my heart is, too. Drowning in coursework and life decisions, I try to rediscover the meaning I believed the universe had as I stood barefoot on the clean, cold tile, observing my sisters’ fairy-like fingers float between ingredients. They were like goddesses to me, so tidy and precise––deities that I wanted to watch forever and ever.

That was a different epoch, when angels were real, when my sisters were there and I could watch Genesis from the comfort of my kitchen. Sometimes I want to run away and meet them again. Other times I wish I were a fruit––so small, yet larger than everything; I wish my sisters were folding me into soft dough, tucking me in, keeping me warm. I wish they were here to wrap me up in themselves, a soft pastry of love and togetherness; I wish they were here to tell me which decisions are the right ones, to decipher both algebra and fate.

I never ate their pastries. They must have been infused with Ambrosia, or pixie dust or the gold at the end of the rainbow––things meant for my sisters, things that were too good for me.

Every so often, in the middle of the night, I tiptoe across the house and stand in the corner of the kitchen, just inside the door––exactly were I stood years ago––and watch the glittering ghosts of my sisters turn the counters into oracles of their craft. Their hands are still as graceful and effortless as ever, still as ethereal untouched, untouchable; and they still comfort me, even when they are little more than spirits. They are too perfect to be of this world, and that’s why they left it.

I never said that I wanted to be like my sisters, just that I wanted to witness their superhuman beauty.

No, I never wanted to be like my sisters.

No, I never wanted to grow up.

I am a peach, awaiting a sister’s inspiration, eyeing the well that lies ahead. If only Hera or Persephone could coax me, I would have the courage to leap.

I am small, and the strawberries are endless, and we are a pastry, in heaven, together at last.

The Burial: A Poem

We bury ourselves in the sound.

It is the dirt that rolls

around us, into us,

the dirt that drops behind our eyelids

and pauses lightly at our lips–

the warm soil, the nourishing earth,

here to protect us from formaldehyde

and needles and nooses

and downpour in the heartbreak.

We dig ourselves downwards

to escape the oppressive sky

and the alleged eyes here to protect us,

and the thoughts, so unquiet,

are softened by the song

like wolves domesticated by gentle hands,

like water sleeping in puddles on the sidewalk,

like summer winds at a standstill.

We bury ourselves in a slurry of murmurs

and we swim away, away, far away

from the coffins and tombstones

and we avoid suffocation.

The sound is our home.

Mary Lambert, the queen of my existence

Mary Lambert, the queen of my existence

Okay: A Poem

Screen shot 2015-06-04 at 5.54.53 PMThere is no offer of roses and daisies
nothing beautiful is assured

But every time he implores me, every time
he reminds me of value even in hurt
there are implications of petals
along the corners of his lips
rising from the blunt colors of his irises

He hugs me with words of
worth exists
and you can get to know okay

There is no promise of better,
it cannot be promised
but there is a promise of okay
even among the not okay

What i can’t feel now i will later
he assures me
whether it’s red or blue
so i put my breath down
and drop my fist sharpness
and for now it’s all okayokay