One will begin to cough up dirt.
He will taste mud in every meal.
Another will stop changing his sheets.
His wife will complain of the number of blankets,
the weight of so much wool and cotton.
One will develop ulcers.
One will board up his windows.
The youngest will wake up with sudden blindness
and he will be comforted by this.
All will experience impotence.
When the earth takes you as a lover,
you will have no other.
- Sierra DeMulder
I am beginning the slow task of booking shows for next semester. Please contact me at sierrademulder@gmail.com if you are interested in hosting a performance and/or a workshop. If you aren’t involved with booking, but are still interested, you can forward my contact information or send me a nudge in the right direction. Any questions?
The universe is telling me to quit my job and focus on writing, teaching and performing poetry. What should I do?
When my mother asked me which poems on my blog were mine, I realized that I never claim what I’ve written. So just a quick public service announcement: The poems on this blog that do not have an author stated are ©Sierra DeMulder 2010. I absolutely love it when people reblog my poems, so please keep sharing…just do so with respect. Thanks! Happy Monday.
I am walking home from the grocery store.
In front of me is a woman with curves
like driving 45 miles an hour over the speed limit
with your eyes closed. Her skin looks so soft,
the way dusk holds the earth in its mouth.
I am carrying orange juice and she is carrying
her body like an overripe comet. I hear them,
howling like babies breastfed on sugar. It is a hot day
and they are starving and she is the sweetest Popsicle
in sight. Tell me how does all that ass fit inside that dress.
Damn girl look at those thighs, I can smell your pussy
from here. Her eyes are down-turned light switches,
a comet dimming. These are the type of men
who are turned on by mannequins, who eat steak
with their fingers. Drooling at the dinner table
does not give you the right to eat. You are wolves
dressed in mens clothing. I don’t say anything.
I am barely tall enough to look them in the eye
and even if I was, what then? What fistful of hair
will they bring home like a bouquet?
Outside the operating room of the sex-change doctor,
a tray of penises.
There is no blood. This is not Vietnam, Chile, Buchenwald.
They were surgical removed under anesthetic. They lie there
neatly, each with a small space around it.
The anesthetic is wearing off now. The chopped-off sexes
lie on the silver tray.
One says I am a weapon thrown down. Let there be no more
killing.
Another says I am a thumb lost in the threshing machine.
Bright straw fills the air. I will never have to work again.
The third says I am a caul removed from his eyes. Now he
can see.
The fourth says I want to painted by Gericault, a still life
with a bust of Apollo, a drape of purple velvet, and a vine of ivy
leaves.
The fifth says I was a dirty little dog, I knew he’d have me
put to sleep.
The sixth says I am safe. Now no one can hurt me.
Only one is unhappy. He lies there weeping in terrible grief,
crying out Father, Father!
