Hands

Hands

You clench fists,

gripping us tightly,

dry and cracked,

in need of tlc.

You fling us around

wildly as you speak.

We spend days nurturing others,

nights making meals,

and you have never even dressed us in pretty jewels

(well maybe that occasional ring).

Our tips press letters and numbers

that keep us connected with loved ones 

in places far away.

Our enamel is never polished bright;

you tried it once 

and said it felt as though it were numb.

We feel the pins and needles

when the weight of you

becomes too much to bear

and you fall asleep

with us tucked under your head.

We remember that time in traffic

when you white-knuckled 

the steering wheel

for fear the other cars were too close.

We feel the aches as you hold tight the brush, 

struggling to get the knots 

out of your daughter’s hair.

You rarely thank us.

You hide us in pockets 

standing on sidewalks.

We could have been used

to create masterpieces of music,

years of guitar and piano lessons

stretching us,

but you chose an alternative,

giving the blood that flows to our ends 

to others.

We hold scars 

from moments 

that are too painful to speak of,

and we've never once complained.

© Suzanne Saxon, 2014

"A Woman's Arm," by Adolph Tidemand, Google Art Project
from Wikimedia

Image

She screams out, “You're Not Worth It!”

and I call back “I know.”

For that's all she's ever told me.

I see her looking at me through the streaked glass,

and I wonder what makes me carry all her burdens,

better yet what makes me hate her so?

Yes, yes, I know, hate is a strong word,

but there is no other way to describe this relationship.

We go back as far as scented markers and play dough.

Elementary times, when hurtful words were spoken,

and she never once took up for me.

Instead she made me believe I was all those things.

The abuse only became worse with each passing year,

as she continued to beat me down.

I reached ages of physical yet not emotional maturity,

and my mind started to wander and wonder about the opposite sex,

and she had me tell her over and over I was wasting my time.

"Just look at yourself, no one wants you."

Her “I told you so's” stung with each rejection.

I cried myself into dark slumbers night after night,

hoping one day we might part,

but she had taken claim on my soul

so many years ago.

 I tried to escape her grasp, even changed my name,

but she remained,

and as I said I do, I could hear her laughter echoing.

She started all the arguments with me and him,

creating panic, attacking with screams

and items flung through the air.

Making me believe that he and his love were untrue.

Locked behind doors, scissors pressed to wrists,

I heard her say “Cut deep,

for it's the first one that counts.”

I struggled to hear the cry of another

saying “Let me in,

let me in,”

and for that brief moment,

I felt I had reason to live.

My battle struggled on, though,

leading me astray,

and I searched for ways to keep her at bay,

causing loved ones pain. 

I grasped the shame in the palm of my hand.

Holding tight that crimson letter.

My life unraveled,

breaking windows to the truth.

Exposed and vulnerable,

cowering beneath her once again,

I took the blows.

Wished I had strength to battle back.

By then I should have become immune,

but she created cancerous cells,

that I knew so well,

seeping through walls I had built.

Imprisoned,

I reflect a moment,

and reach for my pen.

© Suzanne Saxon, 2014

"La Parisienne Japonaise,: by Alfred Stevens
from Wikimedia Commons

Heritage

I am nothing to claim. 

White skin and dark hair;

I can’t call myself anything. 

I envy those who have heritage, 

rich and proud, 

black brown and loud. 

Me, I come from a history of nothingness: 

my father born Jewish, 

my mother born Caucasian 

(the word for the occasion 

when they don’t have anything to say 

except you’re white). 

White like ghosts 

you're taught to be afraid of. 

White like cotton 

slaves were forced to pick. 

Had my mother too been Jewish, 

at least I could have possessed that as what I am. 

Yes, I know from where my ancestors came, 

and I have to laugh to this day 

that some people say 

I am privileged to be this color. 

And to those I say, fuck no! 

‘Cause I have to risk skin cancer to 

look as healthy as you,

and I have to wear makeup that clogs my pores 

to make me look alive, not dead. 

And when people speak of the color of snow, 

let’s not forget dirt is brown, 

and in it is where things grow. 

You may read this 

and call it self-hate. 

But my intention’s not that. 

This is just a message 

to which some of us relate.

© Suzanne Saxon, 2013

White and Brown
Photo by Tony Russell

Anger

Words that spit fire,

like dragons

eatin’ up sweet lava,

inferno’s rhythm

playin’ my song.

You know, the one

I tried to play for you

before I was denied

the opportunity.

Flames levitate,

giving way

to vicious lies.

I breathe in,

wait to exhale

and spew my poison,

hate-infused declarations

created from pain.

My tongue is singed now,

and not easily held.

© Suzanne Saxon, 2013

Fire-breathing Dragon
Frontispiece to chapter 12 of 1905 edition of J. Allen St. John's ''The Face in the Pool''
Published 1905
from Wikimedia Commons

Poet's Body

I have a poet's body,
so to see my beauty,

you may have to search deeper within.

I make up my face not with lipstick,

for if my lip sticks you're not hearing

what I've said.

I have a poet’s body,

not perfect,

yes there are flaws.

I’m not structured a certain way,

no concrete,

I'm breaking down walls.

I stay covered,

not exposing my flesh,

would rather arouse you,

with the words that I spit.

I have a poet’s body.

My stomach holds truths,

some find hard to digest.

I expel ideas,

meticulous

with common sense.

I have a poet’s body.

My shoulders carry burdens,

that anchor me to the ground.

I massage out the stress,

by writing this down.

I have a poet’s body.

I inhale my surroundings,

hold for a second my breath,

then exhale metaphors,

resuscitating life just as quickly.

I have a poet’s body.

My heart pumps creativity

that flows through my veins,

allowing others to say,

they may feel the same.

Yes, I have a poet’s body,

so to see my beauty,

you may have to search

deeper within.

I have a poet’s body.

and my mind

is waiting to be examined.

       © Suzanne Saxon, 2013

Possibly only the second known photograph of Emily Dickinson,
seated on the left.
Photo released Sept. 7, 2012 by Amherst College Archives and Special Collections
and the Emily Dickinson Museum

Relationship

I'm sorry to stay covered up,
but that was so you
could possibly get to know me
for my other attributes,
not just my double D's.
You see it’s not that
I’m not proud
of my physical being;
just was hoping
you might find
a little cerebral stimulation
arousing,
take it to another
level--
something a bit
more conscious.
I mean let’s get serious
for a minute.
What do you want out of life,
and where do you see me in it?
Don’t wanna feel like
this is time wasted,
cause if it is
there's no reason
to even hold this conversation,
cause I need a man
who is able to express his self
yet not try and overshadow.
For though I want you to shine,
I need not be blinded by your ego.
I wish that I knew what was happening
when you looked at me
like my eyes could mirror yours,
and therefore
I could reflect
those innermost thoughts,
know you deep inside.
Cause after all,
they are the windows
to your soul.
But you curtain them
with heavy lids
or turn away,
as if to say,
“I don’t want you to know
what’s not already surfaced.”
Discover that
I too, like you,
am vulnerable sometimes,
but for every weakness
there is strength,
and maybe yours
is locked behind
that visual contact
you find so hard to make,
and that’s why,
when asked about
real emotions
you hesitate,
while my tears
make it blurry,
impossible to concentrate.
So I move on
and wipe away truths
with the back of my hand,
cause if you shed tears
and open yourself,
you think you are less
than a man.

      © Suzanne Saxon, 2012

Male-female intersex relationship
Wikimedia Commons
Serge Lachinov, 1914