Elle Hill

If I fits, I sits. But I don’t fit, and still I sit, In the very back, Capping the row, An oversized bookend. One side gasps for air. The other knows my colleague. Our arms, our thighs Kiss, make love. Their mouth, their eyes Frown, promise retribution In seething blog posts Or cruel laughter Over afternoon cocktails. My doughy bottom Rolls across hard plastic, Sighs, drips over sides. I torque twist, fold: Inward, always inward, In posture if not in fact. My fat, knotted body An unvoiced apology For daring to exist. Thighs that normally Clap and steam Loll, cold and dead, The only tingle The electric shocks Of restricted blood. Tiny, hinging writing surface Unfurls – O Modern Technology! It bounces on my belly, Slanting our worldview. I’ll take notes in my lap If I can just… reach… I’ll take notes in my head. What happens when you Stuff a peck Of tender/tenderized poet Into a tiny,...

A week ago, I completed a poetry half-marathon. A full marathon asked poor, abused poets to pen a poem an hour for twenty-four hours. Wimps like me who appreciate a comfy night’s sleep could opt for a half-marathon, which demanded one poem an hour for only twelve hours. So, by the end of my stint, I became the proud mama of twelve poem babies. Since then, I have become a poetry fiend. I pen quick limericks in elevators, wax poetic in blog posts, jot down freestyle verse during lunch. Heck, during a series of endless meetings last week, I wrote pages of poetry bemoaning the uncomfortable, molded-plastic, stadium seating into which the administrators had shoved us poor instructors. Here’s a haiku I wrote while shifting every five minutes in order to restore circulation to my legs. Metal-toothed plastic   Bites my ample derriere. Classroom seating sucks. In addition to actually writing more lately, I’ve also found myself pondering the musicality of poetry and, by e...

You varnish the skies. Your incandescent arms Embrace dark rooms, Make them blush In the slow burn of Flickering kisses. When summer’s green grows tired and bored, You crisp along its edges, Crackling with something like laughter. You pull the sun into bed at night And tug it back into the morning sky. As a child, my younger sister’s hair Gleamed pale yellow, A shiny brass coin rubbed matte. I dressed her in yellow And called her my daffodil. Fat bumblebees, weighted by Beauty and importance, Bounce through the air. They wear natural crowns And make love to Golden blossoms. You coat the curves Of trumpets, trombones, And sultry saxophones. They bleat round notes of rapture And praise. If you melted And spread me about, Smearing me to the edges, I would flow like butter and Taste like sunshine.

I drank the sky, opened my mouth wide, my teeth flashing, cameralike, in the sun. I meant to stutter an excuse, offer an apology, sing the praises of someone not me, but something fuzzy and cool, like gossamer or lavender cotton candy, spun inside. Well, what was I to do? Eyes wide and guilty, I swallowed. It was delicious, I don’t mind saying: Soft and spiky, bitter and so sweet my lips puckered and my tongue perspired. My empty tummy, heretofore wrapped like an undelivered present, unfurled, stretched, gurgled a message to my fretful brain: “More.” I didn’t know what else to do, so I kept my lips unsealed. The heavens poured inside, bulging my cheeks, kissing my throat, rounding my belly. I’m pretty sure a satellite, thundercloud, perhaps a star or two tumbled in. They tasted hot and bright, like metal against my teeth. My face shifted upward, eyes shining, mouth open in a hungry song. Words spun, colliding, forming senten...

What's that clickety-clack sound and the smell of toxic amounts of cinnamon coffee permeating someone's pores? Oh, nothing. Just me doing a poetry half-marathon today from 7 am to 7 pm. I just finished my fourth poem. And by the way, did you know morning happens before 10 am? No, for real. I shall post a poem or two throughout the day. So far, my poems, covering topics from childbirth to sexual assault, have been a bit too personal or dark to share with the universe, but I have eight to go, and my next prompt arrives in seventeen short minutes.  Onward ho, poets and lovers of poetry!

The family crest I made for my furkids- and-fairy-tale-themed wedding. Faithful readers (which pretty much means my best friend and my ex, but still), I have missed you. Like, a lot. Life has been pretty ridiculous lately, though, what with the wedding thingy, teaching a summer class, and then prepping for the new semester. Also, in the last few months, I, the inveterate hater of travel, have gallivanted to Seattle, L.A., Denver (two or three times), and Fort Collins. And Spearfish, South Dakota, but that doesn’t seem quite as impressive. It does have nice scenery, though. To keep our relationship fresh and updated and to explain my unseemly absence, here’s what’s happened in my world in the last couple of months: I DIYed a good chunk of my wedding. I am the invitation-penningest, program-designingest, escort-card-makingest, centerpiece-strategizingest, travel-organizingest, vendor-liaisingest, sign-creatingest, DJ-song-list-compilingest bride evuh! I added zero words t...