misunderstandings
How
can
one moment
be held
so differently
between
two
bodies?
You and I both know
The ivy you claimed to grow in jest
has wrapped it’s way around your heart.
I lost you
in the million lifetimes you lived.
Is this glimpse all I get?
A pit full of ashes and sorry-looking faces
Buzz cuts and bug bites
Punk shows and dirty shoes
I love the way it feels down here
I’m infatuated with how the Dead Boys broke up across the river
And how the best moshes were created in Ohio, Kentucky, and Indiana
The energy stands still and dry
I cough In its residue
A dirty neon lights town
Shuffling cards
Bumping into ghosts
Big black holes full of hell that bookers stir on a Wednesday afternoon
Old shot glasses and bluegrass
And I’m related somehow
Signed CDs
Commissions of bears
Headaches
Late night drives back
Ant covered pizzas and tired eyes
If I were to bet on art
fog hides the coast,
creeps close.
there’s less shore than there was before.
I thought I could write a good poem today,
and I waited for the fog to clear.
it never happened.
Your barrel-chested body anchors this boat;
we wade in hope like
children hidden in adult coats;
pretending nothing hurts anymore.
I look down at you; transom eyed blue depths.
I want to sink into the salt of this.
Sandy on my lips, I lean forward into it
and kiss; We both know drowning isn’t sustainable.
Neither meant for life at sea.
Tired travelers who’ve built our own ports
out of oak and ache from mean memories of transit tanks;
beautiful spots we stayed in,
Thought once we might emigrate
instead of migrate.
Learned the language, the locals,
Stayed homesick the whole time.
So many times; rowed rough seas of incompatibility;
called typhoons light rain
Taped stress-cracked hulls with epoxy
and sat with wet feet watching the slow drip
gather and sink love dreams.
It’s hard to point lighthouses out now.
Learned to live by instinct like cavefish.
This smooth sailing feels dangerous.
The fireworks light up the ocean line
Like the dawn of a new year.
I rope my fingers into your beard
As we decipher Morse code, desires, and smoke flares.
Sit in front of the computer
without writing: 2 hrs.
Stare out the window: 15 min.
Get a second cup of tea: 5 min.
Watch the sun light up the green lichen
on the beech tree: 10 min.
Eye the stack of word cards on the desk,
but don’t turn any over: 5 min.
Go for a walk: 1 hr.
Fix lunch, then wash dishes: 30 min.
Take a nap: 20 min.
Read Ada Limon’s new poetry book: 45 min.
Turn on the computer again: 5 min.
Write poem: 3 min.
Sometimes we forget
that life is
a shared experience.
We whole ourselves up
externally in a safe space,
internally in a locked safe,
never venturing out
or turning the key
because we think
we might be a bother to somebody
even to those who we share
treasured memories with.
Yet, our souls cannot withstand
infinity spent
in solitary confinement.
It has to be let out
to breath in enrichment
from other kindred souls
in order to be whole.
To be alive is
to share experience
otherwise,
what’s the point in our
existence?
