kismet

art by Kalise Cecilia DeRoche main is @rosiefemme

[preraphaelita]

Ms. Calendar

Every seven days feels like the last.

Maybe this week.

Maybe this week.

Maybe Someday,

I tell myself

for years, but

Someday has gotten lost on the map.

Someday went into a bar & never came back.

Someday crashed the car and

drowned in a lake 2 feet deep.

Someday never returned from war,

no matter how long I had our picture up.

Every night I lay awake

praying my Someday

comes home soon.

If not for me,

then to put all these other

dates to rest.

[preraphaelita]

yo im in love w who you are & who u pretend to be, in case that wasn’t clear

[preraphaelita]

Hour Matinée

Steadfast and hold!

Quiet now.

She says she hears the

Archduke down the hall.

I nod along.

Take out a light

and cough.

“This is slow dance music.”

My eyes water.

The drop in goes dark &

we are the only ones now.

Among no appeasing thoughts

you found me.

In a metal crate,

incorrectly labeled,

defiled.

Looks like she forgot

to take this

home again.

Deep sigh.

Put her with the rest of ‘em.

Lined up,

everyone else’s miniatures.

I scribble down what I can before

I’m yanked away.

It’s my only way in.

Scratching the surfaces,

brazening overtures,

staying up all night

nursing a blunt forced

dramaturgy board,

stuck with state pins and

bubble tape decks.

I blow it up

(all the time)

praying you’ll forgive

an act of war.

[preraphaelita]

ive come to realize that it is not a race

and it is not a marathon either.

it is a relay sport.

if evil can pass a torch,

goodness can too!

[preraphaelita]

I Am Not A Meteorologist

I didn’t go to school for it.

I can’t look at a graph or chart

and tell you the trends.

The lines bend for me,

Bell End,

until they ripple as water on the pond.

The rhythmic pulse of decency emanates from the depths.

Glowing green,

imbibing.

You are absinthe from class today.

The sharp clink of silver on China,

Bell Toll,

this tea tastes like summer.

Rosie, are you even listening?

Wind chimes in with a story now,

one you’ve heard before.

Yeah, yeah, I’ll be back when it’s done.

I pour and leave.

Back of the circle now,

In a rocking chair.

I see the stars even during the day.

They ask me what I studied-

or maybe they want to-

but I don’t know what to say.

Everyone else said it so much better.

Bubbles pop in our throats &

I’m alone again.

Did I ever tell you

I had to fight for each

degree of separation I sought

from Al Anon?

The third one went to the bone.

So burned up that heat waves

started to crash all across the island.

A hot knife to the throat

of the threat to our kin

that my hearts and I generated

just for you.

Sky Woman. Thunder Bird.

Willow Tree. River Bed.

No, I am not a meteorologist.

But I can’t even begin to count

how many times I’ve been

a meteor.

[preraphaelita]

a little comic abt practicing the craft in the 21st century

[preraphaelita]

/ reanimate /

do I scare you?

how deep does it go?

The layers, count them, peel them.

does it feel better when I go deeper?

does it hurt?

do you want it to?

keep me here longer,

tied up, or maybe

just high

you are high, and i like that about you.

do you have a light? i want you to come downstairs with me

you are finally here!

that bulb is flickering,

so I guess it’s only half the time

I don’t feel good.

Do you have something for that?

I’ll close the cabinet door if I ever find out.

there’s someone sitting with me now but they don’t make a sound.

it’s so hard to hear from above.

I’m just so high up, it’s

not impressive.

It’s scary.

There’s no one from ear to ear.

We are all missing from you.

I’m scared

there’s no one from ear to ear.

I’m all fangs and down

on all fours.

It is not the wind.

It is not siren.

I am the warning sign.

[preraphaelita]

Toxic Shock Syndrome

Paleness in the face of the moon,

homesick and howling.

Only sweat breaks the silence.

I’ve taken for granted

Goodwill for too long.

I saw the eyes of a demon in the mirror.

She had gray irises and a castle made of ice.

I kept my bathroom cabinets open,

hung scarves across her image for years so that she could not escape.

I used hot pokers and incantations to exercise her out.

Woke up every morning in a swamp of her fury.

Sticky, heartless, rancid,

she crawled from me.

I chained her to a tree on a plantation in Georgia,

one of the floating oaks that line the entrance way in.

She may stay there,

gaze longingly at the Homestead,

but she will never return.

The glint of our flame reflects poorly in her clouded vision,

as she watches the white pillars burn.

[preraphaelita]

Pasteur Time

All the things that didn’t work:

1: My body.

Maybe I was dressed in black lingerie,

or as a Go-Go dancer.

Maybe I had pink hair,

or hardly any at all.

Maybe I came as the slayer,

or the God who summoned her.

Maybe I was perfumed,

frosted,

layered,

unkempt,

unclothed,

coated,

shivering in maroon shorts and a yellow tank from my mother,

asleep on the couch outside your door again.

It never occurred to me that it didn’t matter.

2: My ego.

No one can do what I do, and that is true about everyone.

If I am beautiful on the outside, they will not see the Rot.

If I am beautiful on the outside, they will not see the Rot.

The Rot has claws.

The Rot has teeth.

The Rot tells me someone is here, but not who I think it is.

The Rot is a womb which bleeds house and home like a rusty faucet,

Iron Age,

internal plumbing condemned by lead piping.

You know,

I put my mouth to that once?

You know,

I drank from it?

Not by my hand.

They say you can lead a horse to water,

but they don’t tell you what it takes to make it consume.

They don’t tell you about the knees buckled,

the bile,

the dread.

Have you ever ridden a bronco with nothing to lose?

Nowhere to go?

A word from the wise:

Don’t stare down a mare who will take

any turn.

I haven’t always had the luxury of making my own bad decisions.

I go door-to-door across this island now asking who’s got the reigns.

“Hey, who’s pulling the strings ‘round here?”

Always a different answer,

always something that doesn’t quite look like proof.

Only genius seems to know us.

3: My family.

I’m sitting on top of a lawnmower to save my ankles and the daisies in the front yard.

I have the conversation again, in vain.

She always knows just what to say.

I guess I’ll believe it tomorrow then.

All the things that did work:

1: My spirit.

Along the garden wall, a string of cherry-red flowers creeps towards the sky. I pick one to preserve, tucking it behind my ear for safekeeping until I am back home. Not a moment later, I hear the call. I haven’t much to bring back today but there’s plenty in the cupboards, I think to myself, planning the suntea I’d make upon return. The call gets louder, more complex as I approach. A rolling snare, Fernando’s footsteps echo between the trees.

“You are almost home,” the leaves fold back-and-forth in whispers.

I laugh, though I know I shouldn’t. I look back on the path behind me, all bloomed in crimson and teeming with life, and I can’t help but wonder how I got here. I certainly recognize this land, for this is the place that asked for my stewardship, and my memory is strong within her. Do they know I never truly left?

The birch begin to rumble like stallions across the plains, bumping into each other in their desperate sprint towards liberation and growth. Their skin peels in great white curls, begging to be plucked and burned in mass regeneration.

With Homestead in view, it takes but a few steps to light the fire. There is a pot on the stove. There is thyme in my hands. There is a checkered tile floor and pale, green gingham curtains. I can just start to see them now through the window.

2: My song.

Someone told me once that

rhythm is half silence.

And although it’s an

indisputable fact of nature,

there comes a point where the beats strike so close together that

it emits more of a hum,

a vibration that resonates so continuously,

it could keep a bird in flight or

a moth guided to a flame.

& I could be wrong,

of course,

but I swear on my life,

it’s the lightning flashbulb

eye-lined superstar-crossed

love storybook keeper

character arching

backstage past life

I felt in you all those years ago

that I keep hearing.

Maybe,

but who’s to say,

really?

[preraphaelita]

@ waterstop’s “the future is ancient” exhibit

[preraphaelita]

from remarkable (2018)

[preraphaelita]

In the backseat:

I came home from war last night.

Put down my battle axe and picked up my piccolo.

It was a long time away.

Even longer since you didn’t know when I’d be back.

The years condense from this point,

folded accordion style in the courtyard.

The things we say in jest keep coming up,

deep from the base of your throat,

a stirring, a backup vocal.

The last place you’d think to check.

The last place you’d want to be.

The last time we saw each other, I was rancid on the inside. I completely intoxicated the place.

Left them gagging behind the venue, spewing guts that no one would see, for years.

For years, the tissue grew on that spot in North East, creating life.

A better biome for the masses.

For years, I ate off that ground.

Dropped food, crumbs, leftovers from a party no one came to.

Every bit fell straight to the floor. Fuck,

I forgot to put my stomach in again.

Left the light on for nobody- my only regular- every night, for years.

When they kicked me from the infantry, I nearly lost all my fight. Down to

two breaths a minute.

I can’t imagine looking at someone like that and not wanting to be with them.

I guess there’s something hidden within the lyrics. The crowd reaches out to hold our mystery.

Shimmering, they know who it’s for.

For Years.

For Weeks.

For Minutes.

For Good.

[rosiefemme]

“kalise world approaches” mood board

[preraphaelita]

brilliance

no one has been this nice to me before!

it's so strange hearing it out loud,

though nothing has really been said (yet?)

still it's nice to feel seen heard

protected in thought in a contagious world.

i can't say that i hope to see you again,

even that has been too much of a luxury in my life.

all I can say is i hope that you are listening,

i hope you are moved in spirit and body,

and i hope- more than anything- you trust in the music

all we could ever dream of is encased in the music

i remember when my realities blended.

four days i daren't sleep for what was on the other side of this was the dream?

surely it does not get better,

surely it does not get brighter,

than when you part the curtains

and let the music in

[preraphaelita]

a poem abt montana i wrote from the train:

the bodies here are so heavy,

no matter how small the frame and

the skies here are so huge that

the clouds get lost in them.

they bump into each other mournfully,

stretch and yawn like cattle.

they bruise the sky in blue and violet,

then collapse into ash at the evening bell,

locking away the stories of the stars

yet again

[preraphaelita]

ah, but it if you pick me, then i may wilt on your kitchen table, or on your mantle, instead of alone on some mountain top, & isnt that far greater?

[rosiefemme]

a birthday present for my friend M, who has been trapped in a Matchbox 20 for far too long. habibati, the whole world thanks you ☀️