what if it was all
a dream
and tomorrow we wake
at five years old again
and watch the sun fade
through the window blinds
two reflections
lines of dots on the wall
watch them fill with shadow
as a truck passes by the backyard
count to three, hold a breath
and unodubtedly they return
aligned in rows
because phenomena
do not deserve an explanation
You never seemed to kiss me in the daylight
Nighttime was always our waltz
Late laughter and droopy eyes
Wrapped around you, hearing your beat
The night shift drug you to my doorstep late
But you’d linger in my bed til afternoon
My window faced the west
So the sun never woke us too early
I always was a girl who didn’t like sleeping in
The songs the birds sing in the morning are lighter than evening
Breakfast was always my favorite food
But when 3am rings I’ll pause my dreams
I’ll still find my way to you
And wonder if the sun will always rise in the east
Turned out to be a nice night
The day was sunshine filled
And hot
Not summer hot
But hot compared to the days we’ve been having
And it didn’t rain
Finally
A whippoorwill calls into the night sky
It sounds lonely
Almost a haunting echo
In the darkness
No moon or stars in sight
The sky is a void
No beginning or ending
Tired limbs stretch
And I disappear
I leave a star-shaped nightlight I never turn on anymore
plugged into the dusty
outlet in my wall. Children’s books I haven’t read for years
fill the shelf beside my bed. Dolls I haven’t played with since
grade school sit in the corner, staring
at me as I live every day without
them. I’ve spent hours picking up those princess dolls, cataloging memories we share, analyzing their sentimental worth,
wondering if they’d be better off waiting
in a Goodwill for some little kid who really wants
them. But I keep them here anyway, hoarding a past
I can’t bear to give away.
For the first time in my life, part of me wants to grow up,
to leave home, to be free, to be an independent woman, not a girl
who still must ask her parents’ permission to leave the house.
I want to purge my room of the relics that chain
me to childhood, to make myself anew,
but something in me refuses to let me surrender those memories.
The part of me that wants to throw a tea party on a Dollar Tree blanket
and invite all her dolls,
the part of me that longs to convince my mother
to read my sister and me the longest story
on my shelf so we can stay up
past our bedtime,
the part of me that still wants to turn on that nightlight,
so when I wake in the middle of the night,
I can see the light
and know that everything is going to be okay.
I appreciate the gifts.
1)
Some say Missouri means people of the long canoes.
2)
The gravel drive led us through a grove of trees
into an opening where a trailer sat surrounded
by an exhibition of broken everything. 3 little dogs
yapped with fury. After a time a woman, yawning
and gapped-mouth, came out and looked pissed.
I thought meth lab and was already backing up.
3)
Since the time of Indian removal there have been
no reservations in Missouri.
4)
Once we found the Air B&B sign on the mail box
we could breate. Our bedroom was attached
to a wood-working shop where tamahawks
were being crafted. No one was around.
On the wall was a large map of where dozens
of native tribes had lived in Missouri
before 1700.
5)
Population of Missouri: over 6,000,000
6)
It was pouring rain and we had to make a pit stop
in Humansville. Up the road from there
we had to make a detour through Peculiar.
After that everything cleared up
and the sun came out.
7)
Number of people in the Missouria tribe:
1780 – 1,000
1805 – 300
1829 – 80
1910 – 13
8)
The Kansas City Cheifs logo is an arrowhead
with the letters KC.
In my sister’s neighborhood there’s one
on both sides of every double garage.
dreams come difficultly
between digital flashes this
ante meridiem, and
we toss,
in tossing we turn,
and in turning
we toss, and
shake off spasms,
thoughts unbidden
creatures that creep
under eyelids, into
grey matter we can’t
slake, never mind
how hard we wish,
call out, adjust,
squirm
it’s no use
as we lie
inside this world
falling out
He never liked my curls,
nor the colors of my soul in linen.
Whenever I stood, stomach bulging and bloated,
the uncertainty of boyhood dripped and froze as he stared.
“You are so beautiful”
was never offered when my glasses were on.
Fix your spine.
Fix your jokes.
Fix your voices.
Don’t be loud.
Don’t wear that.
Do things for me.
Sure it’ll pass, but will it?
Are all America’s boys justified nowadays
to slouch against doorways with nothing to say?
….meanwhile women eat away at themselves,
doing a lit review on forgiveness.
