My Little Boat
I wish I had a little boat to take me out to sea
I could watch the fishes play – rest elbows on my knees
Stars at night would guide me while sunfish lit the day
I’d call my boat The Tinker an’ we’d splash along our way
I wish I had a little boat to take me out to sea
I could watch the fishes play – rest elbows on my knees
Stars at night would guide me while sunfish lit the day
I’d call my boat The Tinker an’ we’d splash along our way
Your love
is empty calories.
It’s a gnawing
in the pit of my stomach
at 4 am.
Promising sustenance
and always leaving me
Starving…
Yearning…
for something more.
Resume argument with wife from
behind the bathroom door
about air plane crashes
and expiration dates. Give the dogs away.
While at the grocery,
buy Bisquick that has not yet
expired but forget juice. Think about
all the dead Jesuses. Count to three and pay.
Ignore children searching for eggs in the parking lot.
The symbol of life is a heart.
The steady thrum- the steady beat.
We all dread the flat line.
When we hear that sound-
That constant monotone sound,
We know they’re gone.
When the idea finally sinks in,
You feel your nose crinkle up,
Your jaw clenches,
And your throat contracts,
You can’t breath.
You gasp for breath as it sinks in-
They’re gone.
When you heard they were hurt,
You hoped and prayed
They would be alright.
You told yourself they would be fine-
And then they weren’t.
They were gone-
but you still couldn’t believe.
No no it was fine-
Everything was fine.
You ignored the hole in your heart.
But everything was not fine.
You may ignore what you see,
What you feel,
You can bottle it up so no one sees.
But then you will see something,
Hear something,
And you’ll remember-
You’ll remember the pain-
The bottle will smash on the floor,
And your emotions will fly out.
You’ll fall to the floor and cry.
The pain will never seem to stop.
And in a way-
It never does.
They’re gone.
They’re gone.
They’re gone.
I don’t care for shivery winter
Wrapped in sweaters struggling to stay warm
I wait for spring and things that are green
Yearning for buds and birds
And seeds slipping through my fingers
Burying my hands in warm wet dirt
Stepping gently over new grass
Leaning into short lived lilacs
And breathing in the fresh scent
Of rebirth and nature waking back to life,
Remember that morning when I woke early to find you eating oatmeal and I looked outside and the light was so beautiful?
“It’s a Maxfield Parrish painting, ” I said.
I sipped coffee, you ate oatmeal, and we watched the light seep into the backyard, saturating it like a golden liquid glaze.
Translucent, ethereal, calming.
This holy moment is wrapped in lace and tucked safely away in a corner of that part of me that is ours.
I know that she was yours long before I was aware of her existence,
And that you grew her into the human that I now get to call mine.
You helped her cultivate her quirky interests,
And gave her all of the childhood stories she shares with me.
We’d known each other for two weeks before I asked her if this could be ‘exclusive’.
We didn’t feel like we needed to dodge labels or play fields,
Because when you’ve spent years dreaming up what you need, it couldn’t be more clear when you find it.
We were so proud to go public,
To be able to show the friends who’d listened to our lonely hearts lament, that we had found what they’d told us we deserved.
All of that is just a fancy way to say that we quickly became “Facebook Official”.
200 likes and 20 comments later it was clear that we weren’t the only ones celebrating our discovery.
But you were quiet.
And when she came to visit that weekend, your silence was so loud.
When she returned home your daily phone calls had stopped.
I know that I am only a stranger, and that none of this is really about me.
I am not trying to ruffle feathers, I’m simply hoping to offer some insight.
I want you to realize that you have handed her a burden in a time where we feel like we are on top of the world.
When we’re curled up on the couch bingeing mindless television,
In the mornings when we lay in bed silently soaking up the seconds together,
Between the sappy texts we send when we’re apart-
You are always there.
She can hear your silent efforts to plant doubts in her head,
We’re both aware that you are trying to make her feel like she has to choose one of us.
Why are you trying to make her question her pride, when you should simply swallow yours?
You are her mother,
And two months ago I was a stranger.
I know that I will never see it through your eyes,
But I wish you could see her through mine.
She is so pure,
Honarably honest,
Excited and eager,
Always ready to take on the world.
Thank you for making her who she is,
I hope that one day we will be able to talk about this person.
Until then, I will keep her safe.
Messy bitch, I mean Vanessa, I mean, Haworthia cymbiformis
AKA Cathedral Window
also known as a portal, an aperture, la finestra
in the tower or edifice or hall of my succulent transformation
If you ask me what kind of animal I want to be, I will say
Plant
every time. I mean, occasionally. I mean, if I answer the question at all.
AKA, I want to dig my toes so deep into the soil that they form roots an talk to the worms.
Also known as, *ew, that’s weird*, *you’re not playing the game right*, *get it together*
Messy bitch has it all the way together.
Her throne is a pot
on a windowsill in a spot
that she picked, not
Me.
She sits on her splay of tangled moss and radiant contemplation.
Her roots grow and crackle and cackle at the jokes the dirt knows
She does not spend a second
worried that her disarray does anything less than add beauty
& Value.
She doesn’t care to be called Vanessa.
She does not worry, the way I do, that her name is too profane. S
he knows it’s all sacred.
The moss. The soil. And the light.
When you ask her what type of animal she would be, you can’t hear the sigh But it’s there.
Just out of reach. It says, “if you could be
Me,
why the fuck would you be anyone else?”
