annapaulinasuszynski

I have an uncanny nostalgia for fleeting feelings.

Dance

I had the privilege to photograph some of the very talented dancers at my school the other day. I recently got around to editing the photos and I was struck by the dancer’s incredible capability to morph their bodies into something inhuman. It was rather beautiful in that way, as if they were escaping from their bodies for a moment.

Morph

Out my window there is 

A rather frail tree with a heavy

Nest that rests on the very top branches,

It has small branch fingers that elegantly 

Emerge from a muddle of frosty white cotton

And feathers and natural soft things 

Sometimes there are dried leaves entangled 

In the mess like a caught bug. 

Once I made the mistake of looking out

The window and down into the nest.

And there were three blue robin eggs

The color of water in the early morning

With a white or black speckle here and there. 

I thought to myself how lovely.

So the next morning I woke at the same time

To see the three blue eggs but one had cracked

And instead of a small, young bird emerging

From the delicately cracked shell 

A rosy pink crystal cut into the sky,

The color of the inside of your cheek.

The next day I wondered to the window 

With a cup of hot coffee in my hand 

And the last two eggs had cracked too.

A sticking black spider crawled up the

Crystal, leaving green smudges across

Its glass surface.

There was nothing in the last egg. 

On the third day I woke to a beam of 

Sun hitting my brow,

It was reflecting off the inside of the last egg,

I stuck my hand out the window and looked inside

It was completely made of ivory,

Polished like earrings sitting on my desk.

As I went to class I couldn’t help but notice

The sharp edges of the crystalline forms 

Growing on the shirts of my classmates

Spiders slid down the walls into the desk chairs

And eyes made of ivory stared at blank chalkboards. 

We are all made of crystals, spiders, and ivory things

In a world of silently squawking birds. 

On Suicide

I’m sad because you let the 

Flames singe your beautiful wings 

Until they curled in dark blackness 

Like ash in the fire. 

I’m sad but the tears that wash my face

Only crumble burnt wings 

Until they’re dirty piles on the cruel floor 

That housed delicate feet that couldn’t 

Handle the glass on the road. 

I’m sad because you used to tell 

Me things about how the wind 

Feels in your blue wings and you would

Smile at the intricate patterns 

In your skin and tell me how beautiful

We all are and you fooled me into 

Thinking that you liked the shapes of your fingernails. 

I’m sad when I saw all the people

Crying the kind of tears that don’t happen

That often and I’m sad when somebody 

Hugs me because I can feel their 

Sadness through the cotton of their shirts. 

But most of all I’m angry:

Because you told lies like snake 

Tongues between your teeth singed

With poison like all the people before

You that thought leaving was better

Than staying, that thinking you could

Stay in the bell jar below the desk 

Until someday you turned the 

Engine on all night and the fumes

Tasted sweeter than air. 

I’m furious because you were the last

Straw this year, you broke me, you 

Broke my skin, there are tears in my wings

And I don’t understand why every time 

You saw tears in mine and fixed them

You never thought of the tears in yours. 

I’m confused because these emotions 

Are running into each other and bleeding 

Out of my fingertips and down my pant leg

I feel anger, resentment, deep deep sadness,

And profound love for a race of people

With beautiful skin who sometimes refuse to 

See it, that tell lies that they’re okay 

Who think that bell jars are safe havens 

When singed wings will only suffocate. 

Your sadness is not beautiful,

It is utterly devastating

And my anger will not subside until

I see your life not as a plea for help

But as a glimmering pattern in the

Wings of the many people you left behind.  

Canada

I just got back from a great ski trip/vacation/spring break in Canada. I truly do love it there and I was so inspired to write. The drastically different beauty was breathe taking and I can’t stop thinking about their gorgeously tall and elegant trees. So I should write a poem about that. Yes, it has been decided. My dear followers, please expect one in the near future.

Don’t Ask me to Explain

There it is

My heart pinned down,

Shifting shoulders shoved back

On the dissecting tray like

A dead animal so its beats

Slow down until they’re faint

Whimpers coming from a sad mouth.

So you can see where the mad

Parts are in the corner;

Hunched like famished wolves

And where

The happy parts reside, you can

See the lonely clouds come in and

Out over the peaks of memories

That are dripped in snow.

You can see it all, sterile on the tray

But you could have seen it

In my face too, written in the

Circles in my eyes, like tree trunks.

You didn’t have to shove me on the ground

Under a magnifying glass.

You can poke the sharp tools at the

Pink organic skin and feel

The heart breathing, lungs pulsing.

There are balloons attached

To the love, to the sad

That float above the tray.

You can’t point your sharp tools at

Them because of their rubbery skin,

Falling like garbage to the ground.

The balloons frame faces like

Pictures of landscapes and sometimes

They’re tied so close to my

Heart that the rubber seems to graze the

Snow capped mountains and

Other times, the balloons are so far away.

Those with the distance have scissors in their

Pockets and those close are so fragile

In their proximity.

So every effort I’ve made to float above

The dissecting tray becomes nothing.

So there we lay,

My heart and her balloons

Like a rare spectacle in the lab

Because it grew mountains and

Valleys and rivers in the veins of my

Bloodstream- because the balloons

Are the closest scientists have come

To studying my love, my sadness, to

The humanness of humanity;

Because maybe the heart can’t be

Scientifically dissected without cutting

Loose the strings.

Poking at the anger will only make it worse,

And the mountains of memories will never stop

Growing, my veins carrying the remnants of a

Good life, my sadness, my anger, my love are

A thriving natural world not ready for the

Sterility of explanation.

A Treehouse

There is a treehouse in my backyard,

And I built it with my grandfather’s hard

Work and skills enough so it stood,

Nails and planks of wood

From the fallen bushes and trees

Near the old fence weeds,

Close to the little dry creek

And the cave dwellings of those crayfish

Who built their homes on ancient cups and dishes.

There is a treehouse on the cottonwood bark

Where the free birds sit and pick the bark stark

And a green slide to the bottom

Where the snakes hang, but I don’t bother ‘em

I put a rug on the wood ground up there

With a circle of discarded chairs

Rests on the fringes so I don’t get splinters

But the snow covers them in the cold winters.

I nailed some shelves into the walls too

So I could put the mason jars that catch the dew

And the cracked china with the creek shells

A tiny little necklace of bells

I found old whiskey bottles

Some rusted car throttles.

I was a collector, an entrepreneur of old things

I even have a glass box for butterfly wings

I would grab a book from the library

Sitting in the treehouse until the sky turned starry

Until my mom brought me hot chocolate

A blanket, and put my hand in her pocket.

But, the nails are coming out

And I doubt

The rug is there anymore

Or how I could restore

The broken chairs

Or climb up the rotting stairs,

But I can’t help but feel like a child

When I see the vines climbing the tree wild,

I bring a book up there and sit in the leaves

Not caring if the snow freezes

My cheek because I refuse to let it decay

Without just one last day

That I can sit there for a long time

Ignoring the daily grind

Listening to the wind in the trees

Knowing truly what everything means.

Little Red Riding Hood

Simple beauty never ceases to amaze me

w|hole

There’s a hole in the universe

Big enough for your pinky to fit through

And if you put your eye up to it

You can see the silky fabric of another

Universe 

It’s painted with all your favorite colors

Like the color a cello makes; syrupy sweet

And the light green of a new blade of grass

Or the pale, pale yellow of pancake batter.

You can see the little hole everyday if you 

Look hard enough because sometimes

When you roll over in bed in the morning

It’s right there next to your alarm clock 

And other times it’s a little pot hole on the

Street going to work. 

Because it shatters what you think is whole,

A hole in the universe just glimpsing the life

That might have been, with all your favorite smells,

Like the earth after a rainstorm 

Or brownies in the oven when they’re half done

And your room after a long shower in the afternoon.

But you can’t think this way,

You can’t think of holes and universes that might 

Have been or could be

You know why…

Because the universe is w|hole,

Just like the tree outside your window is w|hole

Or the beautiful boy who lives down the hall is

W|hole and the broken girl you see slouching 

On the way to class is w|hole.

Or the old woman who just lost her dog

And the man who is too afraid to leave

His house,

They’re all w|hole.

So cork up the trickle of a better life,

Or take what you want from it 

And fling it across the ocean 

Grab hold of the seagull and 

Swoop with your beautifully patched heart 

Across the w|hole universe. 

 

Water Droplets on a Cobweb

I Can’t Give You Beautiful

In the winter my branches 

Are bare so you can see the bone white

Of my ribs and my teeth,

So you can see everything I don’t want you

To see

So you can coax me into loving you

Because maybe its the only warmth I had.

In the spring I love everything

And I can see the beginnings of green buds

Twisting around my ribs and forming

Pockets for my lungs

There is rain in the afternoons

The wax on my leaves catching

Droplets so I can see the world

From a different angle,

I don’t love you,

I have all the warmth I ever need.

In the summer there are roses in my cheeks

Daises in my roots, leaves hiding my eyes,

There is sun shining on my back

Sun shining on my trunk so

I can never feel the cold

And when the rain comes late at night

I welcome it with open arms

Because I like what the water feels like

On the bark of my skin,

I don’t love you,

I love the sun.

When the green starts turning to gold,

I look magnificent

There are shades of red in my leaves too

And I can see my reflection on the ground

Where the leaves fell,

My skin feels so good too

Because the sun started shining less brightly

The night sky seems more welcoming than

The light of the day

And during the night the moon asks

If I’m doing ok and if the sun wasn’t good to me

Hanging blankets of cool darkness around

My burned shoulders,

And my branches seem to straighten

I don’t love you,

I love the moon.

And just when I thought I truly

Found a real heart, not one made

Of mud and branches and sticks and stones

Just when I thought my leaves were a beautiful

Shade of gold and red,

When I had lips to cover my teeth

And eyelashes to keep out the rain,

The winter came back again

And blew all the leaves away

Taking its hands,

Placing them on my trunk and pulling up

Scattering all my leaves across the ground

To be buried in the snow

Taking me by the hips and placing me

In the middle of a stark white background

So everybody can see my trembling lower lip

I can’t give you beautiful

Because I thought that the winter and the trees

Went well together

But when I looked at my hands today

I saw cold cracks running on my knuckles

And I thought how neglectful,

How terribly cold I feel

And I don’t want to feel this way.

 

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