first THANK YOU because i’ve gotten so many messages about my chloe poems and i’m kind of overwhelmed by the things you all are saying about them and i kind of just I DON’T KNOW. i’ve actually written nearly 20 poems so far in a series that i hope will be 25-30 poems long but IDK yet because Chloe kind of won’t leave me alone. she’s in my head, she’s with me in the shower and when i’m out with friends. she sneaks into my bed at night to try to warm her toes against my legs and sometimes she brings me flowers but honestly a lot of the time she’s angry and leaves me knives instead. she’s a handful. she’s demanding that i write faster but honestly she talks a lot and never about any one thing for long. I AM TRYING TO GET THESE POEMS DONE AS QUICKLY AS I CAN. send all hate mail to Chloe, honestly. she’ll read them and probably burn them all and eat the ashes after.
this poem is important to me for more reasons than i could ever count so thank you for your kind words, thank you for connecting with this piece, thank you for taking the time to tell me that you think this poem is attractive, thank you thank you thank you.
Last night was that dream
again: me and Jesus
pulling nails out of our feet
at the lip of the Mississippi
Delta. Somewhere, Coretta
is calling for Martin
to come down from a sycamore.
He’s just a boy, here, but
he weeps and the sky
is ripped at the belly.
This is always what I hope to do with my writing. Thank you. Thank you.
Chloe indulges in strawberry soft-serve
and licks her fingers after and this feels better
than the time she let a boy put his face between
her thighs, this feels better than when she took
three Tylenol for a headache, this feels better
than when she finally accepted her imminent death.
Chloe doesn’t remove her jeans before bed
and doesn’t believe in prayer. Chloe wakes up
with her mascara smeared and four new texts.
Don’t you think it’s time to stop romanticizing
un-sharpened pencils, Chloe? Don’t think
you’re fooling anyone with the broken eggshells
stuffed into the kitchen sink. Chloe will hold
the hand of someone who is very important to her
before the end of the week but for the life of her
she can’t stop crying into her coffee over boys who
don’t care. Sometimes she almost forgets her name
but then she finds the CD with it scribbled on like an
afterthought. Chloe, I know how sad you are.
I hear it every time the needle skips.
Even if it’s in the way you hand them a fork or tuck in their tag, find a way to tell the people in your life that you love them and that they matter and that they are important and wonderful and mean moons to you. There is so much love in your lives, I promise. There is so much warm bread.
We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman, “O me! O life!… of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless… of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life?” Answer. That you are here - that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. That the powerful play *goes on* and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?
Rest in peace.
Tumblr kindly reminding me that this blog turned four years old today. Time has gone by so fast it’s almost scary. Thank you to all of you for being here and for your support and patience over the past four years. I wouldn’t still be here if not for y’all. Love each and every single one of you so, so much.
Each time the same -
I am holy, holy, holy, laid
out as a banquet.
His hands are plate,
cup, and knife. Always
a long table, a single
This is my body.
He eats me up and I believe
that I will awake someday
in his veins, pound my fists
against the walls of him.
I love them in museums, on buses, sitting compact
in trains and on airplanes, running their fingers
through their hair, drunk at parties, stumbling home,
long-limbed and full of awkward grace, boys, yes,
lay on top of me or lay beside me, breathe light into
my ear. I love them angry and confrontational or soft
and philosophical. I want to curl up inside of them,
read their palms, make them pasta and bread
from scratch. I love them kissing me in the backseat
of a taxi cab or alone on the street corner, lost,
trying to find their way home. I love their throats,
their knobby elbows, their spines beneath a soft
cotton shirt. I love them at home, poised readily
over my Keurig, asking which flavor, if I want sugar.
I love their hands in my hair, undoing the braid,
fingernails to my scalp, yes, more, please don’t stop.
I love them in doorways, at the grocery store among
the cereals and unpronounceable cheeses; I love them
at night, pale shadows under lampposts, walking
away from me and into the men they’re going to be.
Never, ever underestimate the therapeutic power of spending a few days with close friends. Don’t take the people you love in your life for granted. They truly want to see you better.
5 Questions for Kristina Haynes | Splice Lit
Guys! Girls! Dolls! Butts!
I’ve just been interviewed by a super cool, super trendy lit magazine called Splicelit and as well as answering some questions about my writing process and my feelings towards Tumblr, they’ve also allowed me to send in two brand new poems. I sound a lot more neurotic than I really am, I think, but I’m so tickled pink by being interviewed that it’s kind of obscene. SO CHECK IT OUT.