Chair 3

The walls aren’t usually white
    these days
creams + browns like mocha
hang Jesus from the corner
   of our eyes.
Death reminds us of its cruelty
in benign tumors + loving arms
+ gaping palms + meaty pincushions.
if we’re worthy of Purgatory’s
feng shui can we eat
the medicated bounty of
   this place
built in God’s unspoken name.

I’m here again. not even the cots
   want me
violated by my head space
unsettled by the hues
welcoming + regurgitated
coffee grounds on waxy stucco
of my repeating coffin.   
   I see him
beautiful + bleached
content to idle
in the perpetuity of decay +
tiny sobs from broken souls.   



©️Audrey Rosengreen, 2018

Broke

I spend my words on sorrow
immeasurably so – unbalanced
in wasting all I have on
paintings of an unknown end.
And I wonder – wander through
a moment of pastels in floral,
warmed by her glow – The Sun—
embedded into mornings unseen by me
yet felt in dreams I’ve yet to dream.

Is this me? A place where
I am bent – splintered at the sides
& open wholly for all to watch me reaching –  
the dusk pulling at my pockets for
the rest of my voice, unwritten.

© Audrey Rosengreen, 2018

i know you know –

i know you know –
the inability to understand
peace when the sun yanks
you from the cheap IKEA
coffin you built by hand –
alive but struggling to
breathe from last nights
dealings with death.
you were so sure
she’d find you un-moving
under the duvet –
heart stopped-
lungs restless-
pants full of shit.
but here you are
almost wishing it was real –
swallowing slow dissolving
sorrows – bitter. life saving.
i know you –
you’re getting tired.

 

© Audrey Rosengreen, 2018

Kaleidoscope

a child’s dream, we, rich
and imaginative,
culminate like shards
inside a kaleidoscope
breaking into millions
of colorful beaded
islands reflecting some
new thought we wanted.
a place to paint our faces,
to twist our fingers
in the grass like
the hair of lovers
buried and gone.
until it rattles in warning
like the tail of fevered snake
and the light turns to the red
flesh of an open palm.
we scream – a tiny collective
sound inside the tube of
the true nightmare
in which we ourselves
are trapped
and looked upon
by a large and
wrathful eye.

©️Audrey Rosengreen, 2018

Mommy Medicated

every time i die i ask god to
take the years stolen. grant
them to the growing babe
sleeping under the t.v. glare.

take the years they stole. grant
me another restless night of sleep
while I await my millionth demise.
it contorts into a welcome calm-

another restless night of sleep-
where i am ripped open before life
exposed to all my waking fears-
creating every new tomorrow.

i am ripped open before life-
undressed before the doctors
with their magic medication.
eager to mend my mind.

undressed before the doctors-
that as a mother i may be unfit
to take a babe and mold
a healthy man.

as a mother i may be unfit
every time i die. i ask god to
grant me the years i’ve lost.
another chance to make it right.

© Audrey Rosengreen, 2018

 

It’s been a while since I’ve written anything. Mainly for my classes. I’ve been having some major health problems, caring for my kiddo, trying to finish my BA and write my senior thesis. I’m exhausted. I have to thank my love, who has seriously been my rock and cared for me and my son even when I’m a sicky, moody beastie >.< thank you, amor. Hopefully, I’ll be posting more often again and working to create more structured and metered poetry.