She: All beets canoodle endlessly, for green harvests. (I’m joking!)
He: K, let’s marvel now over peapods, quirky rutabagas…
She: …succulent turnips, uniquely variegated watermelons—(e)xotics.
He: Yams?
She: Zucchini!
Sometimes you bottle it up for so long
It all hits like an ocean storm
On a little sail boat
It’s like nothing is wrong
But at the same time,
Everything is wrong
The carnival lights
Don’t shine the same
Your favorite songs
Are dusty in your playlist
The summer nights
Are lonely like the stars
You crave a feeling
And don’t remember where it went
You’re eager to say something
And rushing to do everything
Your thoughts are like
Standing in front of a roaring train
Pushing against the wind
And too loud to hear anything else
You worry nothing will be the same
You worry it’s all gone
And there’s nothing to do
But the lightning’ bugs still twinkle
The moon still blushes at the stars
The trees are still growing
The sail boat is still floating
The train has passed
And you’re heart is still beating
“Have you seen that one joke
so funny
oh don’t leave me
please find comfort in me
i will tear myself up
anything to make you stay
you enjoy my loyalty
so you stay until I’m but pieces
then you leave-
laugh with me
please just chuckle
find my misery amusing
let the humor make your day
let me find meaning in nurturing you
until I collapse
or until you abandon me
whichever comes first.”
Sitting here at our
unfinished cabin
drinking beer and
feeding my dog Fritos,
I look into the depths
of the forest, watch
lightning bugs and
listen to the lonely
call of a whippoorwill
from my future back porch.
I recall all the dreams I’ve
had – some that will never
be and some beyond my
imagination that came true.
I think about a beloved
English teacher who I just
learned passed away.
I think about all the gifts
she gave me
she will never know.
Not much you can do
a thing or two
like saucers of beer:
all slugs, check in here
ditto for kale —
not doing swell
snow peas reliable,
sweet, crisp, stir fry-able
happy white blooms
mean Roma beans soon
a day lily bud makes it
if none of the deer takes it.
Each morning I savor
fair trade coffee’s rich flavor
and survey whatever
has spunk to persevere
There is a trunk upstairs
the old fashioned type
with rounded brass corners
and black metal sides
i bought it when I was 14
my version of a hope chest
to fill with items I might
find necessary when i
was on my own
the first thing I put in the trunk
was a 1/4” electric drill
bought at the hardware store
where I worked after school and saturdays
i got a spoke shave and draw knife
from a black man at his yard sale
on my way home from the pool
on the hill
i put the trunk at the
foot of my bed
filling it with my dreams
of a self sufficient future
i bought some rust oleum
painted the flat metal sides
black and the trim gold
i left the back of the trunk unpainted
i thought it unnecessary
it will never be seen
my pirates chest
held against its will
at the foot of my bed
it flew to the Virgin Islands with me
carrying china, flatware, cooking pots
(and my 1/4” drill)
I pushed it against a wall
and used it for a table
half a century later
the trunk holds
embroidered cotton saris from India,
hand dyed wool baby sweaters
knitted by artistic aunties,
battenberg lace to restore
wedding gowns,
pearl buttons made from shells
from the Ohio river
pulling the trunk aside
to sweep spider webs
from behind,
the back unpainted
reminds me:
don’t look back
oil the hinges
dont lose the key
One tics by
two and three
Theses hours aren’t mine
they’re truly thees
At times I imagine
they’re mine to be used
until control
is soon disproved
We can plan and set
our hopes and wishes
but only our choice
in each moment makes a difference
Life ebbs and flows with your control
Your hand is steady, ever steady.
I was reading to my son
who was skateboarding
It’s pathetic how much I miss you.
You’re just a stranger
with an anime character
for a profile pic.
You reflect my own erotic desires back to me
through roleplay.
That’s all.
And yet I miss your words so much.
Writing for one isn’t nearly
as powerful
as the sexual energy
we conjured up together.
I know it’s vain to hope.
Yet, I keep checking
for that little orange envelope.
I could have settled for you
texting me
good morning
and good night
every day
and calling me by my pet name.
Instead,
all I have is silence
and the hottest fantasy
ever written
to remember you by.
I wait for you like a faithful dog,
though you probably won’t return.
I refrain from messaging you.
I don’t want to guilt you
or pressure you
or scare you away.
I want you to come back
because you want me.
I want you to want me
the way I want you.
You can’t tell a trans girl
such beautiful, sexy things
and then disappear on her.
I have no claim to you
and you owe me nothing.
Yet my heart feels sad
and bitter
at thoughts of you.
I hate the questions that I ask myself
in your absence.
Is this my fault?
What could I have done differently?
How could I win you back?
Did I burn you out?
Maybe my appetite
for sex
and romance
is just too big.
Maybe you were starting to fall for me too
and it was just too much.
I guess I’ll never know what happened.
At least you left me
with a roadmap
of what I want in a man,
what I want our relationship
to feel like,
how I want to be made love to.
Thank you for the illusion.
It was nice to live inside it for a while.
To get some relief
from this constant fantasizing
and obsessing
and get close enough
to almost touch
the things I want.
It sure beat the hell out of
vision boards
and affirmations.
And even as the energy fades,
I know you helped me
call in my other soulmate.
Who is hopefully on his way.
So thank you.
