Rebecca Cook

because my dream of the shower house don't ask me their hands are too small their eyes will not open they are sealed-up shut a purring sound is furring up the edges of the photograph where fifteen pairs of shoes are toed-to-the-line Margaret and Mary Ann whistling just like the boys oh! how starched our undercarriages, how immovable our curls, oh! our bastillion brassieres. someone hurls a pair of batons going brilliant going bang blistering the night air those of us…

shrinking up, aka i would give up my singing voice for a cig the absurd shoe in the absurd room the absurd effort of cheer my angry foot, my swollen calf, it’s a long way to fetch him from his moldering place, his such-a-small room in such-a walled in house. i am a scurrying mouse, arranging the cake, the candles, small plates of sandwiches, fishing through the ancient drawers in my father’s house while my brother sits silent in his chair.…

the miscarriage and what came after the baby fell out so I put it back in to grow it to size to correct the stitches I dropped I put in another sleeve I lined fifty-five buttons up the... (contact me to hear the rest of poem--rebeccacookwriter@gmail.com)

the abortion and the book of rules, aka why a fish was never a baby I thought I’d keep the abortion in a cup, a jar with holes poked in the lid so the moon shines through at night, so the thing will turn to a fish and... (contact me to hear the rest of poem--rebeccacookwriter@gmail.com)

because my little pony tempered the earth what's the face of this broken heart, its dreary, melting face. hey, ma, you look sad, hey, ma, you should try friendship love, and generosity. what's the face of a mother erased... (contact me to hear the rest of poem--rebeccacookwriter@gmail.com)

These Rivers Endlessly Endlessly Then I will swim the dreaming of my house, the well-mannered happenings of my house, the slip noose hanging from the frame of my house I will dream the bright waters of my house gathering in the broken heart of my house. For it will be the bear-claw quilt that... (contact me to hear the rest of poem--rebeccacookwriter@gmail.com)

because not even god I have put together the ankle to the hand pulled the body down into the arch of the foot secured the instep to the baby’s nose look, ma— it’s an inverted swing set it’s a solid acre of... (contact me to hear the rest of poem--rebeccacookwriter@gmail.com)

and for his head a sapphire crown They took him up in a net of jewels. Like a chandelier rising to the ceiling they incrusted him with light and lifted his body... (contact me to hear the rest of poem--rebeccacookwriter@gmail.com)

verses composed outside Nineveh under a fig tree wither the tree, the stubborn root choking the heart. blister us with the noonday sun we will not yield we will not go into the city. we will not god, we will not the promise of angels. we teeter on the head of the pin-- the windmill arms, the whoa! whoa! whoa! the long way down.

It's Monday morning. James has his heart cath tomorrow morning. Am I nervous? I think so. Highly irritable? Yes. Grumpy? Probably. I always thought these were symptoms of hypomania, and perhaps they are. But now that I'm in the DBT program, I realize they are also related to how I am treating myself overall. Not just too little sleep/poor diet/no exercise. No, it's more than this. There is mindfulness. Moving from moment to moment engaged. And there are skillful means. Using…