i thought my hero
was super
but it turns out
he’s an abuser
Contented grin, shy glance, angry eyes
magazine-model-serious
surprised amusement
beauty divine
A part of me
radiates through her every expression
but sweeter
and softer
A different part of me
ices in my suffering heart
cold, hard
hopeful still yet
Feelings put together in a collage
help gather all my pieces
important, valid
mysterious with possibilities
(I wish I could have attached the collage!)
i miss you
i will allow myself this one
instance to miss you
–
i felt programmed to fall
towards your decade
in rented rooms, two
travelers,
my fingers searching for
that bump of cartilege,
a guide post for my hands
i followed the filepath
your words wove through
my neurons, past ganglia
and reuptake inhibitors,
each syllable more motive
to make a move to execute
towards the buttonholes
of your gingham fences
i drank the current
my excuse to stay in the arms
of a delusion that lingered just
a little too long to let
my break be an ellipsis
instead of a full stop
–
i thank you, now,
in these small moments of progress
when I feel comfortable
in self-comfort,
you taught me i was wrong
in the assumption my faults
were overwhelming and my features were
repugnant,
that unloveableness is not
immutably programed in me
even if i was your zero
and not your one
Gauzy strips of high cloud let the lovers’ moon tease as Venus lies distant in the late night of a new season. Mars receded weeks ago, having altered the cosmology of this insignificant world. Coyotes howl back at fire engines answering a call out on the state four-lane. Dogs lying on decks, or sprawled on the cool concrete aprons of garages, take the world as normal, but the house is still. If the slap of a suitcase closing or a door slamming is the echo of alone, what is the sound count of goodbye? Is it human in its making, or can it be the season word buried in endless haiku about change, the death of the invisible but tangible? Only a fool believes the sound of one hand clapping can be doubled for long. Only the untried have faith in phoenixes, or any hope of rebirth.
Train tracks,
covered by leaves,
spring, summer plants.
Trees grown,
trained,
into a long arch,
verdant tunnel
that
stretches
the length of what
an eye can see.
Who walks this path?
Cool, beautiful,
dappling of light and green
shade on skin.
His favorite
was red velvet.
All that
suffocating
richness.
He gobbled
in
great
bites,
demanded more.
The kitchen was
escape,
punishment. Hands red
from batter and hot dish water,
she cut him his third piece
and paused,
knife glinting in her eye.
She carried in a plate,
balanced over
the blade.
This desert
would be
sweet.
We seem stuck in twilight,
purple-black sky washed
in amber light.
Weighty, sweet air
redolent with leaves and blooms
and the scent of our sweat.
Trees reach their shadows over
your shoulders, back,
face and eyes.
I see flashes as we move,
bronze and rose striping
flesh.
Your touch is heavy as the
summer night.
Under you, I can barely breathe.
My thoughts follow the smokey clouds,
but the rumbling of your voice
deep into my ribs
brings me back.
Your gaze–
sharp clarity. hungry focus–
pins me.
I bend my neck to you.
You accept.
As a toddler you wordlessly sized me up,
and locked onto my eyes to discern my mood
and how best to work it into your plans,
coolly determining what you chose to reveal.
Yesterday I was flailing to explain a gripe with your dad.
From another floor you offered an explanation:
“It’s not what he said, but how he said it.”
I couldn’t have said it better myself.
Maybe because you’ve been listening
more than speaking,
you understand the tone behind the words.
You’ve chosen a world of words:
articles reporting the news, an advice column,
poems, a stanza for the school hymn;
cabin talks to counsel your campers,
lyrics sung with your a cappella group,
campaign rhetoric for a national election;
words played in scrabble games,
where your strategy always makes you a winner.
