To Write Love On Her Arms - UChapters Summer Conference

I am beyond ecstatic to announce I’ll be speaking/performing at To Write Love On Her Arms’ UChapters Summer Conference. This is a connection I have wanted to make for so long and I am so thankful for the opportunity to share my story. Stay tuned for a guest blog written by yours truly and a poem or two on TWLOHA social media soon!

sierrademulder:

buttonpoetry:

Sierra DeMulder - “The Unrequited Love Poem” (Poetry Observed)

"A soul mate is not the person who makes you the happiest, but the one who makes you feel the most."

As part of our collaboration with Poetry Observed, we’re re-releasing the original series of videos we filmed with them in 2012, the first video project Button ever worked on, on the Button YouTube. 

This is still probably one of my favorite poems I’ve ever written. Thanks for sharing buttonpoetry!

buttonpoetry:

Sierra DeMulder - “The Unrequited Love Poem” (Poetry Observed)

"A soul mate is not the person who makes you the happiest, but the one who makes you feel the most."

As part of our collaboration with Poetry Observed, we’re re-releasing the original series of videos we filmed with them in 2012, the first video project Button ever worked on, on the Button YouTube. 

This is still probably one of my favorite poems I’ve ever written. Thanks for sharing buttonpoetry!

WAG

(This is a first draft. Please do not repost or reblog. Thank you!)


My dog has a cut as long as a worm
on the end of his tail. I don’t know

how he got it or what it means—a sign
of the apocalypse is not your dog

bleeding all over your bathroom,
right? And it’s just the bathroom really

because he is a needy pup who
loves his mama and follows her

from room to room, in and out of
the rectangular bathroom to watch her

pee or just sit as loyal as a statue
beside her, me, as I soak in the tub.

Anyway, back to blood. He has
only left blood in the bathroom

because it is such a thin room and
he, with that long joyful tail, will

repeatedly whack the walls as
he wags his happiness right there,

right out in open, as if he doesn’t care
the world is too small to fit it. And

because it is my job as the poet
to always find the metaphor—the bigger,

more painful meaning of it all—I think
my dog is trying to tell me something

with his bloody paintbrush and too
trusting eyes: this will hurt. This happiness

will end once you wag your untameable
gut, your heart, once you let it all hang out.


- Sierra DeMulder

I WANT TO SEE YOU

(This is a first draft. Please do no repost or reblog. Thanks!)

when the poems don’t come.
when the car won’t start.
when the dog rolls over.
when the wine ends.
when the candle sighs.
when the breasts swell.
when the cunt swells.
when the cunt cries.
when the breasts sag.
when the candle gives.
when the wine is poured.
when the dog pants.
when the car isn’t a car
but a bed and we turn
and turn and turn over
until our limbs spell words.

- Sierra DeMulder

ALL POEMS ARE LIES

(This is a first draft. Please do not repost or reblog. Thank you!)


The day you came back,
I watched a bird die

in the basement-level
bathroom in my office.

She slipped down
my cheek, into my palm,

to twitch once, twice,
then still. Maybe

it wasn’t a bird.
Maybe I just cried

and hadn’t expected to—
the next time I knew

I would be held by
the same walls as you—

and maybe the tears,
those strange tourists,

felt as foreign and
surprising as death.


- Sierra DeMulder

VAMPIRE MOVIE IN A YELLOW SHIRT

1

Today, I wore a bright yellow blouse to work, a grey knee-length skirt, flats,
A beige bra, and cotton underwear. I didn’t shower and wore the shadow
Of last night’s makeup, and one gold bracelet. My 40 minute commute
Involves one or two public buses and walking on sidewalks. This morning,
I was catcalled four times before I unlocked my office; six times on the way
Home. I want to be a woman who is afraid of nothing.

2

My sister was sad today, the kind that runs thick in our family, so I met her at
The movie theatre after work—a new vampire flick. It was more romantic than
Scary but perhaps that’s because I only unlock myself in the dark. Perhaps
That’s because I am starving for power. Like blood, I know I have it in me but
Sometimes they don’t see it. The lead Vampiress walks the streets of Tangier
In white. No one fucks with a woman with fangs. No one whistles at a wolf.

- Sierra DeMulder

SPELL

My girl Claire is a witch.

She cackles like a baby oak

being split at the stump. I love

how wicked she is—I love

the women in my life who sharpen

their nails, who sand their breasts

down—not flatter, but sharper.

She made me write this poem.

In other words, she put the weapon

in my hands, cast my own lyrics

to this delicious dish.

LILLIES

This is a first draft. Please do not repost or reblog. Thank you!


When a man I do not know dies in avalanche, 

I think not of his body but of the flowers shoved 
like rush hour passengers into his mother’s hands. 

His mother, who is not a widow now but not 

unlike one, the way childbirth is a bodily vow. 
I wonder why we give flowers to those closest 

to death—those who make us so uncomfortable, 

how they float in between life and not. (We are
afraid they might reach out and touch it.) 

Those white lilies will be beautiful, yes, with 

their blank graceful faces, their long sad necks, 
but his mother will not need more reminders of 

the abrupt door, the bottom-heavy hourglass, 

the wilted. But, again, I do not know this woman. 
I did not know her son. When a stranger, who 

worked and sat and breathed in the same office 

as someone who works and sits and breathes 
in my own heart, dies, I think of books left unread, 

mornings spent not in love, bodies choosing 

not to touch. I try not to think of the strange, 
angry manner in which God wiped this one away. 

Like a petal out of place in a still-life. Like dust 

that, over time, drapes itself atop the piano: 
a woman singing the saddest song. 


- Sierra DeMulder