RebeccaLynn

i live in boston, write, and disappoint my parents. header photo credit goes to Marshall Goff.

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"stickers in a bathroom stall" sounds like a sleater kinney song #fuckwhitesupremacy #blacklivesbeforewhitefeelings (at Charlie's Kitchen)

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Superbloom: my sister’s perpetually tired hands, tighten around the steering wheel of the rental car. we hit more than a few bumps on the dirt road on the way up to my grandparent’s house i have never seen their flowers look like this

bright orange California poppies reaching for the sun my mom warns my sister “watch out for the soft dirt” like “watch out for the most dangerous parts” and then we park. walking up the driveway i learn one of the bumps was not just dirt but a different kind of earth; a cluster of these orange california poppies i reassure my mom “don’t worry, they’re still attached at the roots we haven’t hurt them. Much”

inside, my grandfather sits, sinking into a chair, less California poppy, more, tired oak tree. have you ever seen an oak tree, in the strongest wind? you ever watched, the way a strong wind and strong tree battle it out? oak tree always keeps their roots there, but sometimes, he’ll give in to the sway of the wind.

in the kitchen, of my grandparents home, my uncle, who I haven’t seen in two years or maybe more, tells us about his new hobby: beekeeping. isn’t it so human to think we can keep, any living thing? what’s a human hand to the will of nature?

i have a friend, who is a play wright, they told me about their desire to write a play after their father, who was also, a beekeeper, they told me of the way their father’s hives, used to abandon him. maybe it was, mistreatment or laziness isn’t it so human to think any bit of nature won’t leave us?

now, in the kitchen, my uncle informs us that there’s a chance, that a new hive is moving in behind the house. i look back at these California poppies that i’ve never seen bloom like this look at my grandfather, who i’ve never seen sway in the wind like this.

think of the bees, coming to make sure his poppies, stay bright stay growing stay home. isn’t it so human, to think we can keep anything.

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“Play it Back”: a poem as Frank Ocean’s Channel Orange

the first thing you notice about me is my rhythm i move in a way you feel you play me over and over hit repeat: im used to this im just a beautiful feeling you: put hands to my rhythm and ask me nothing deeper than my name i am words that hit sound waves and bounce off I become: poetry Become: gospel Become: street lights That turn on and signal come back Become: broken first floor windows You sneak out of Become: both the sin and the apology play it back bring me back hit repeat: revisit i always revisit everything even those that are the worst for me i revisit even the ones that only notice my rhythm, that play me over and over and ask me nothing deeper than my name.

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He Used To Call Me His Queen

so When he told me that he was going to Kill me I was already naked in his bed & wanting enough to take my clothes off & the confidence in his voice when he threatened me told me I was not the first woman terrified & believing of this threat he taught me to lie to myself that I was the first, or at least would be the last his hands, tangled in my hair, he said my name over and over nothing nothing not a thing I can do now I closed my eyes Wondered If he could really kill something He loved to hurt so much cuz If you shoot your terrified prey just right it don’t scream anymore & he has always loved The sound of my screams So when he climaxes I sob because this is his promise To keep me Breathing

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follow me on twitter @beccal_ynn

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potraits of desert landscapes in which my hometown is the cross they crucify me on:

once in awhile, i drag myself back to the heat back to cracked earth & wonder which of my sins this sweating congregation will hang me for first: my skin darker than the dirt we stomp off our shoes or the “queerness” in me, as ugly, as my mother’s plants that just never could survive in this desert heat & i wonder if this small town that i fought my way out of, is hungry again for another martyr.

growing up in the desert the saguaro cactus symbolizes what ever you need it to & we’ve all heard the tales of a hiker lost, cutting open a cactus to quench his thirst i’m back here now tall, long armed, symbol of escape or, survival or of the way everything stays the same in this desert town & this place aint never been nothin but thirsty & the blood they want to squeeze from me would quench their thirst, quench it real good.

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i never tell anyone about the ways I try to love myself My best friend took me to buy a vibrator And I practiced intimacy. I stopped relaxing my hair And kept promises with myself. Some days I stand in front of the mirror Naked I look at myself until i want to. My mother Tells me all the time How beautiful I am I once had a boyfriend Who used to tell me How beautiful I was when I cried I love a country. Who thinks I am so beautiful when I cry I love a country, who wants to sweep me off my feet & into a tree or a prison or casket or all three. i split my colonized tongue in half and broke no promises i broke my own jaw if only to give myself peace from my own screams i kissed blood off my tired fingers i kissed people who want to make me bleed i never tell anyone about the ways i try to love everyone

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I wanted to write a piece about my experience with this body. I want this piece to be inclusive though. There are ways in which people have told me what woman means & what makes me woman, and that’s wrong and we shouldn’t do that for anyone. While I am a woman, it’s not up to a man, to do anything to tell me what it means to be woman. It’s not up to anyone to tell anyone else what it meanss to be in their own body.

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astronomical my nails bite crescents into his back. through the window, dawn nears the horizon shifts in his sleep. apollo’s threat closing in. & like the moon i heed the warning & go leaving my celestial slivers behind.

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in this poem, i begin destroying an undeserved altar

my friend tells me that as women we have to be tides against the men in our lives & that i am a sea she is right but she is also wrong my father is poseidon he knows nothing about smooth sailing he is all storm against my waters sometimes I do want to be the sea i want to know poseidon would miss me if i was gone instead of being a sail boat broken by a careless storm because my father is more hurricane than man makes me feel more mistake than daughter the last time we talked I told him go ahead call zeus the reason like you’ve ever followed rules before say how he kept you from me spelt out abandonment dressed it up said a cold cave for a home and distance for someone too much yours but not enough like you is for the best i wonder if my mother knew from the beginning besides, what’s a god to a woman? what’s a careless man to a mother? they call poseidon god but also man i call him fool but also father & I want to be done building temples & Writing prayers For a man Who thinks himself god

[brocktonarts]

Brockton Poetry Series featuring RebeccaLynn Gualtieri

6:30 pm – 7:00 pm Sign Up For Open Reading 7:00 pm – 8:00 pm Open Reading 8:15 pm – 8:35 pm Featured Poet RebeccaLynn Gualtieri is a poet currently residing in Jamaica Plain. She writes a lot about race, her mom, and comic books. She blogs frequently between shifts at your favorite bar. You can read some of her poetry on her Tumblr page.

@rebeccalynnwritten

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This picture of me is my favorite

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for white men in bars///but even more for me because my curls are an honor to be tangled in

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Ravens

The Ravens in Wyoming are rampant. Black clusters of feathers with sharp beaks. Not just monsters but smart ones. They love shiny objects and anything they can nest with. Leave your bike outside? That’s fine. The ravens will remind you not to do that in the form of destroying your seat. try and protect it by covering it with a plastic bag? Now you’ve created a game for them. They’ll take joy in leaving you with nothing but plastic bag confetti and a half of a bike seat. The only thing ravens love more than that stuffing from your bike seat? shiny objects. they’re smart about it. instinctive. predatory. they team up. use their wits dive towards unsuspecting woman startle her she drops her purse. coins spill out and there. now they have something new. now they have something shiny. something pretty to look at until they find something else. something shinier. something newer. These birds do not need these shiny coins and glistening car keys. they serve no purpose for their survival. I didn’t leave Wyoming to avoid the Ravens. Things you try to escape have a way of finding you anyway. The Ravens here? They nest in sheets next to me. Buy me dinner. No sharp beaks here. Just soft lips and sweet words. You smart. You startle. You sneak attack. Me surprised. Me fooled. How long have I been shiny coins and glistening car keys?

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His pale hands separate your dark thighs like the new Whole Foods will separate the “good part of town"from the "bad part”

His fingers tangle in your hair. He calls you coffee with cream. Calls you semester abroad community service urban studies project You are sure that the muscles it takes to say your name are still unused. He’s sleeping now. You move to the bathroom. You separate your own thighs, run your fingers through your own hair. Call yourself beautiful. Call yourself strong. Call yourself better. Once pants are zipped, once boots are laced, The only thing you call him is, “never again”. (via rebeccalynnwritten)