SINK
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17 ratings1 review
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5I became intrigued after watching a short video my daughter sent me… I subscribed, downloaded the ebook and immediately began to read it. I did not stop, other than to take a shuddering breath, wipe the tears streaming down my cheeks…until I had finished the entire book. I will be sending the link to several people who will be as deeply moved as I. “I forgive you,” had me sobbing at the end. AMAZING!
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SINK - Desireé Dallagiacomo
A Note on Poetry E-Books
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Can you believe that you, too, are someone’s altar? You are someone’s
SINK
SINK
poems by
Desireé Dallagiacomo
© 2019 by Desireé Dallagiacomo
—
Published by Button Poetry / Exploding Pinecone Press
Minneapolis, MN 55403 | http://www.buttonpoetry.com
—
All Rights Reserved
Manufactured in the United States of America
Cover design: Nikki Clark
ISBN 978-1-943735-49-5
Ebook ISBN 978-1-943735-51-8
Contents
My First Altar
When giving birth
For My Mother
Reno, Nevada
Medford, Oregon
Señor Frogs
Strength
Single Mothers Can Yell Wherever They Want
B on Elm Street Behind the Fairgrounds, 1999
Broken Sonnet for the Closeness of Grooming
10 Candles
Aunt Diana Opens the Trunk of Her Pathfinder and She Cannot Stop Crying as All the Presents for the Homeless Kids Fall Out
The Gutter
Girlhood (noun)
With Vigor
Pine Street, Taser
The Small, Breakable Nature of Gods
Child Protective Services Takes B and All His Siblings on a Tuesday Afternoon
Knots
Origin Story
Everything to Call Him Before Rapist
Be Mine
In State Prison, No One Keeps Their Underwires
Pleasant Valley State Prison with Inmate Number F-49837
A Bluejay Flies into the Mental Hospital
Sink
Grief Vignettes for Aunt Diana
Written 5 Years after Your Body Was Found
13 Ways of Looking at a Rapist
Thighs Say
Salties
It Took My Mother 3 Days to Give Birth to Me
Nine
Joliet Street
One Side of an Ongoing Dialogue with Sharon, My Therapist
I tell you my heart is like an avocado seed
The Funny Wind of the Heart Is Not a Reliable Weathervane
The Autumn I Found Out You Were Dead
Jemez Springs, New Mexico
I Break Like a Fever
The Best Way I Can Tell You about the Resiliency of Tenderness Is with a Portrait of the Pitbull I Share My Bed With
Talk // Talk // Talk
Where Did You Get that Pick-Up Line? You Should Drop It Back Off
Sum of Her Parts
A Man Says to a Woman I Love, If I Caught You in Bed with Someone Else, I’d Shoot You Both
For Keepsies with B
Your Doctor Says Dementia
At Last
Grief Vignettes for Kaiya
Of All the Muscles
A Series of Portraits More Intimate Than Sex
You Became in a Town No One Has Ever Heard Of
Ode to My Strap-On Dildo and Ode for My Love on His Hands and Knees in Front of Me
All the Plus-Size Models in the Magazines Are Actually Regular Size
I Forgive You
I was a late bloomer.
But anyone who blooms at all, ever, is very lucky.
—Sharon Olds
SINK
My First Altar
Altar (noun): a place on which sacrifices are offered in worship, or something sacrificed at the cost of something else.
My first altar was my father’s hands—no.
My first altar was my mother’s body, a secret hideout in a woman’s skin.
My first altar was my sister’s fingers, folding tresses of hair until they were braids down my neck.
My first altar was a place with no name but a slow pulse I followed into brightness.
My first altar was a soft forgiveness.
My first altar was a story I made for myself. Where I call myself girl from many. I call myself daughter of the hunt, here only because a woman before me survived. A woman was never unmade and so she grew me.
My first altar was my body and then that of a starlit boy.
My first altar was the red bloom in my underwear, hid from the laundry and so it stayed a plume—evidence of growing.
My first altar was a cordless phone, whispered into under the covers late on a school night.
My first altar