Anne Marie Rooney

Too our blood is too

There is a tautness. No give. Nothing given so don’t give to the green. Woman rope with her hands on her own splay. No way. Don’t write the fray of the thing, the tender with which each string sings.

It is hard here. A stitch repeating its stops. Every silk is predetermined, chalky, the congestion I’ve felt when you try to talk me down. But talk down to me, blank quality ending.

She wears the tight around her tightening. It’s frightening truly, the color swinging out of its skin in little blips, no, puckers, no forest braiding her in.

Now trees are afraid of her ring. Talk to it. All of you taking interest in the come-back-to-lean. You’ve said she is green and mean it, come clean.

You have also said the tautness. This implies a pulling, having riped. Small cow and her million apostrophes. There is a very white print to all of this: I’d be remiss.

Smoothing the tool over the tree and the trunk slickening and in the bland sap too there is a story. Some stories blink stickier, small matter, they’re entered as any, brood-bound.

Where is your red

Situation is blankly I am in the bathtub bleeding out. I cannot write this—obvious—because it is underhand and overbid, its drama pure: my reddened station. But doesn’t this mean that I cannot simple write the woman. The body I am is always coming open, this how it grows.

In the little water I am a little flesh. As the water lowers that lid on me skins off a fatness. Like heat rises breasts rise like dough. Beery. Blearly. Yearly I am stationed in a fern body. Of gross and bred color I am acquainted with no answer but here.

But down in the century is the ghost of plenty more. I embony the kitchen, sole shake in it. As curve as melon equates me with myself I come unstately in sorrowed amber.

Yes stuck. Yes brood on the cribbing floor. In every woman an apple. Anatomy a which in white curtains. If my ampleness could please a pen could I please approach this otherly aware of some honester place. Though I have none I am one, I know in my skirt and melt I wear a clarity most felt.

Do you feel me yet. What this story needs is more wet: clear. A blood is that, health and just thickness tempering out its good splat. I will one day have a baby with this body. Have one baby or merely two. In me the whole family will screw some bleaty mama. Of course of growth I am not able: when bled I am reedy. What do you read in me. Where is your red.

Delivered in, and ever, in the sun

Does the wall ever bleed for you? It is not bleeding, exactly. In my eyes the wall shifts. As it was painted to do.

I hear her breathing. And sirens. And again. Sirens. And the voices inside which extinguish what’s next.

The mother is saying something. She is shrill and bad, a story-type of woman. The father is too bad to say yet but he is a whole fire when it happens.

This is not always. In the bland light sometimes whistling. Does it bleed / disaster / reset. Your eyes like drugs like mine.

Finally I have my own story. But isn’t it just what was expected? A perfect age, even. Naked man. Fruit unbroken. A body, on which light, predictably, falls.

By now you know that I won’t speak, not here. Or do you? As a girl apart from girls perhaps I could. If I wanted to (for you).  In my very white lightness I see the world and the big nothing in it just (for me). I see what I see.