To Whom It May Concern:

 
Sierra DeMulder’s collection of poetry (if I can even call it that—it is as sprawling as a teenage dream journal) is not a manuscript. It does not contain any semblance of narrative or structure. It is not, as one might hope, a complex, strategically crafted critique of social constructions like gender or the necessity of pants. Nay, my friend! This collection reeks of the pathetic spoils of juvenile ambition: a young writer “experimenting” with “language” like they are they “first” person to “ever” “write” “poetry” (please insert air quotes). It is as if she taped every mediocre poem she ever wrote to the wall her favorite local bar, took five shots (let’s be honest, probably just one) and drunkenly threw a handful of dull darts or wet chewing gum at the wall. Whatever stuck dictated the “chosen ones” for this collection, which is truly a collection in the sense that it is a pile of meaningless words stacked on top of each other like a horrible game of Jenga that just won’t end. Anyway. Allow me to expound upon the world of DeMulder of poems: small, quaint, but not in the-cute-old-woman-knitting way, more in the all-old-people-are-probably-at-least-a-little-homophobic way. DeMulder uses metaphor like the US government uses institutionalized systems of racism to marginalize minorities: too often. Her attempts to be funny have an uncanny resemblance to a puppy drowning. If her writing were a living arrangement, it would be a studio apartment. If her writing were a body of water, it would be not very deep. While reading this collection, I found myself thinking way too much about sandwiches. Also, I am still debating which would be more painful: reading another sappy poem about another of DeMulder’s exes or actually dating her—apparently, it always ends badly. In short, turn back now. In short, publish this collection and a pox upon your children.
  

Sincerely and with deepest regrets,
 

Sierra DeMulder

I cannot tell if we are falling out of love
with each other, or, if this is the love
they warned us of: the love that doesn’t

trim its grievances into neat, pleasing
bushes but instead grows itself wild
as the jaguar—raised in captivity—will

realize one day it too is made for blood.
The love that will hack up the wet,
pink carcass of an argument months after

its neck was snapped and swallowed.
The petty love. The selfish love. The love
that will stop apologizing and start

admitting to Sundays spent masturbating
to the thought of other men’s fingers,
the way her head tilts back as she laughs.

- Sierra DeMulder

The first time you took me to your mother’s

grave, we were full of turkey and gravy
and the kind of fruit salad made from Jello.

We were driving home, north, from Iowa—

the tired sigh of the Midwest—and I was
talking aimlessly of the day, of the desserts,

the small talk, lost in the importance

of my own thoughts. I did not expect you
to turn off the narrow road onto the dirt

driveway of the graveyard. The moment

my eyes registered this—the sagging trees,
the stone stumps like scattered teeth, the green

green grass—I started to weep because I knew

this was the moment I would meet your mother
or, at least, where you lost her for the final time,

back to the earth, the farmer’s wife

who bore land and harvest and six sons
all before that last, long winter.

- Sierra DeMulder

One day, if we are lucky, we will look up
from our breakfast cereal and realize

our lives have slowly thinned and lengthened

like dough rolled under our fingers.
Time: that coiling snake. Time: the silent train.

We count the boxcars as it passes us by

and this makes us feel as though
we understand it. One day, if we are lucky,

our skin will emulate hammocks

and find new ways to sway and sag.
Our voices will dry up and sour like wells.

I hope you will still sing to me then.

I hope we find our way together
across this knotted forest of Time:

that strange witness. Time: the faceless

map—I know where I am going but
don’t know what it looks like. One day,

our love will shed its skin for the hundredth

time and look upon each other new
like children. Our lovemaking will be

a royal dance, a séance of the tired,

a ceremony of seasons, constantly reborn
only to wither in your arms.

- Sierra DeMulder

In America, there are
a few things you can
count on for being
always open: Denny’s,
Seven Eleven, the diner
that no one actually enjoys
but everyone eats at,
the only Chinese buffet
for miles, Walgreens, AA,
coffee shops filled with
insomniacs and addicts,
gas stations, Walmart,
ATMs, women, always
unlocked, always the gate
with no keeper, yes, come
on in, we’re open.

- Sierra DeMulder

It has become a struggle to get dressed
in the morning without hating yourself.

In the mirror, you see a sack of fruit,
a loveseat dragged to the curb. You know

this is not true. You know this is the plight
of those with mirrors and cloth and legs—

yet, still, you do not want to leave
the house. It is spring and you are dough

before the kneading. The man who
loves you from across the country says

your body is his home. You do not want
to believe him: why would anyone

want to live in a sand dune. He is a tourist
in this city. He only sees it when

the lights are on, before the shadows spill
like blood into the streets. Do not leave

the house. Do not even open your doors
when he comes knocking knocking

knocking with those words that can
make you feel but can never make you be.

- Sierra DeMulder

I’ve been thinking a lot about something. I get tagged in a lot of Tumblr posts about self-harm and depression connected with or inspired by my poem Werewolf. Much of this is out of my control. I am honored by many of them. I am amazed and humbled by how much my poem has spoken to people dealing with these issues and I am incredibly thankful for the healing dialogue it has inspired.

In those dark times of my past, I felt so alone. I thought I was a dysfunctional member of society and that I couldn’t do anything but swim in my own suffering. But, through a lot of personal reflection, growth and hard fucking work, I overcame it. (That being said, everyone is different. Everyone is on their own path and I am by no means saying I have the answer to depression.)

Returning to the internet, a lot of the images or memes posted about Werewolf can be very triggering. I am writing this post for two reasons: to recognize my part in this act of triggering AND to encourage fellow bloggers to acknowledge how powerful words and images can be. What can be considered a tame image for one can be what pushes another back down the rabbit hole. I’m definitely not implying any kind of censorship. So much of my self-harm was based out of shame—shame that I had this dirty, pathetic secret that no one would understand. I, more than anyone, recognize the importance of self-expression.

Additionally and possibly most important, I’d like to say that when I wrote Werewolf almost six years ago (holy moly!) I had never heard of the phrase “trigger warning.” I didn’t have a Facebook or a Twitter. I had never performed my poetry for more than thirty people at a time. I was working through my issues with what is still my most effective therapist: my writing. All that being said, I want to formally acknowledge the potential triggering nature of my poem and publicly state that while I understand it more than most, I do not condone self-harm. 

Finally, I want to say to those people who have found solace in my poem—who feel numb or like they are drowning or feel addicted to pain or feel like they cannot express themselves in any other way or feel they just aren’t worth it or feel like they need to punish themselves for existing—that you do not begin or end at your own suffering. You have all of my respect and all of my love. I am eternally grateful for the community we have found. Let’s continue this dialogue towards healing.

xo. Sierra 

From an email written by my grandmother about my grandfather.

He is in a wheel chair and is pushed
wherever he needs to go. He no longer

gets formal physical therapy
but they walk him if he wants to.

It takes two people to walk with him.
He has been eating quite well

on thickened liquids and mechanical
foods. Their goal is for him

to gain weight—has gained
two pounds since being there.

He participates in the activities,
especially the musical concerts.

He has not been roaming at night—
that phase of dementia is over.

It’s okay to bring him candy. We have
been bringing peanut butter cups (a favorite)

but I suspect anything sweet is good.
When Cindy visited, he responded

with “yes” or “no” answers.  He didn’t
remember Julie was there yesterday

with her new dog. He thinks he’s in a hotel
and it’s all right. He holds tightly to

our hands when we say “good-bye”
but doesn’t try to stop us from leaving.


- Sierra DeMulder

After Paul Guest

That it is important. That, not unlike
fairies, it will die if you do not believe in it.
That it is the difference between organic
produce and being shot by the police
for entering your own home. That there is
such a thing as too much, as if it were
chocolate or heroin. That it is both
stomach ache and overdose. That it is not
what makes the world go round but instead
what makes the world brutally murder
each other. That it does this, not you. That it is
the second coming of Christ. That it will come
when it is called. That it will fill you up
as it starves your neighbor. That it grows
as sweet as a peach and ripens and rots
just as humans do. That it is only paper.
That it cannot be burned.

- Sierra DeMulder