ALEXIS PEARSON - POEMS

Alexis tries to create an experience that is nearly tangible, something that is understood in the bones before the brain. She lives in Minnesota where it's cold most of the year - perfect writing weather. She enjoys a good cup of coffee and will read just about anything but has an affinity for writing that feels like jumping into the deep end.

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Once, twice, thrice?: when will death come
​

​I have dreamt of death
Far too many times
To continue to
Force myself
Through the never-ending
            Torment
Of life.
Its cyclical torture
Pushing me
And pulling me.
And I am tired –
I dream of death
As a helping hand
That tenderly brings me
To sandy beaches
Where the waves roll
And the stars
Kiss the treetops
And it’s so silent
That I can no longer
Hear you calling for me –
But –
My premature
            Death
Would only be peaceful
For so long
Before one day
You die too –
And will you join me
Then –
In the sand –
And will we get
A second chance –
But if our bodies
Are to be covered in thorns
And our lungs
Filled with silence
We can only hope
That the ocean
            Have mercy on us
And drown us both.
 
 
 

The agony of waiting
​

​I have an indelible infatuation
With the way the air sits
In the hush of the morning.
We are waiting
In steaming cups of coffee
For sugar
And a spoon –
And we are the sidewalks
Before feet
Rocks, pebbles
Rolling
    in
      the
        rush
            of life –
too fast           can never catch up –
And you,
The inexhaustible heat waiting
But there is no peace
In your apprehension –
Your antipathy
To the morning
Offensive and unjust –
The dying calm
Ravages my bitter bones,
I am waiting for you,
You are waiting for she,
She is waiting for something,
And the mourning is waiting for me.
 
 
 

Turning mistakes into lullabies
​

​Running into
Walls, cracking under
The pressure of it all me
Or the wall – you may never
Know and that is how
I like it. Or love it. Love is such
            An ugly word.
I hate it.
I hate you
Or me I’m not
So sure anymore
Which mask is teasing me.
Like the way a dog’s hair
Stands on end at
Any sign of fear
There are sirens in my body
That drown out
Every sINging choir
That keeps me
SANE
I can hear nothing else and I
Remember in school
When my choir teacher would
Tell us that it’s okay
To sing the wrong notes
As long as we sing it loud
And that is when I
First learned about how to make
The right kind of mistake
And now
I am convinced that maybe
The choir inside my bones
Deep underneath my skin just
Doesn’t know the words
And I wish they would just shut up
But they never stop singing
And I blame them for every mistake
I make every mistake.
 

Question marks on my gravestone
​

​If my soul
Has nowhere
To go
When it leaves
Its home
I hope
She makes friends
With the universe –
And with my
Eyes to the sky
For eternity
She will smile
At me
From time to time
To reassure me
That my passing
Has made the
Stars brighter
And the universe
Vaster
Than ever before.
 
 
 

With a bucket and a lid
​

​There are trees in
Places that have
Seen more of my
Palm than my own
Fingertips –
My knuckles
Rage with jealousy
At the boundaries
Between
Them and intimacy.
And the branches
Crookedly reach to share
My secrets with
The breeze
And the man
In the cabin
Taps the bark
Of every one he sees
But not every tree
Is a maple –
And the syrup
Isn’t always sweet –