Wild Horses

I leaned over your desk,
left a paperweight snow globe— 
in it a floating message that everything 

changes—hoping you’d see
that meant that everything could
circle our track around to finish at home.

After hard training came roads—
Kentucky winter paved with your name,
I fell into your sea to see vistas looking for spring.

But no one rings the phones
today—only the sound of bosses
sounding the interoffice messaging apps

on the MacOffice computer
reminding to pick up only memories,
pick up notebooks, pens, and papers—

I’m tired of writing about you.
I’m tired of talking circles about you.
I was tired of the amorous love faces you would make.

It is every night I want to unbutton 
your blouse and my Levi’s jeans—to take a bite 
of your mouth—without disturbing your personal affairs:

rip the bit out of your mouth, 
lay the saddle in the dirt, and pretend 
for a happy marriage for seven whooping hours.

I don’t know. Will you’ll find me 
acceptable?—We’ll write a contract
over Eggs Benedict—I’ll cook—then a fiery look

will come over your auburn eyes, 
almost angry, where you’ll kick me in the teeth 
saying, “Nice plan, but I’m everyone you’ve ever had.”

For Frankie

I have a real early recollection 
that smells like Aquanetand Marlboro Lights. 
My two aunts have got me 
standing balanced on the toilet lid
in ruffled socks,
in front of a mirror framed
by fake plastic bamboo.
I was wearing a dress I can’t remember.
Their excited conversation escapes me too.
They chirped like birds and flitted around me
each one armed with a curling iron,
turning me from a real girl

into a chubby cheeked, blue eyed babydoll.
I knew a man was coming.
And that the grown ups said
the stranger was my father, but maybe
not my Dad.
One of my earliest memories
is how handsome he turned out to be,
blue eyes sparkling and a smile that flashed.
And how Mommy folded her arms across
her typically generous chest
and looked mad like that smile
couldn’t phase her.
I remember how I hid behind
the curtain of her wide legged jeans,
when he reached for me
so familiarly. 
I remember I didn’t cry. 

In the middle of the night I piss beside them “” and think: I
shouldn’t be mourning you yet. “” I tell myself every day I’ll
throw them away. “” Then every morning I
get up and greet the decay like a friend ||

By Friday | I
can’t watch another living thing ||
Share suffocation in this house anymore. ||I buckle; I
wasn’t mad at the buds “” Lucky to be bought,
they no longer “” have to wait “” Tired ||
and on display, || at last no one would look at them
with scrutiny ||except for me “”
I pour out the week in the bathroom sink “” And hold
the bundle still to refill the pitcher ||I
can feel them rejoice and relax in my reach
|| With fragility and memoried paper thin skin. ||
They crunch against my will and I
“” like you, feel nothing at all. ||

No flower can survive in the dark “”
For 3 days I didn’t even look at this batch“”
Refused to cut the dead leaves || These are the prettiest ones and I || Wouldn’t give them the light or attention they need ||
|| Some women get flowers as a reminder
“” As soon as you leave, they forget why. ||

As if in our biology were born
a malfeasance, a money-sick
demeanor we might cure
with cardiocredit that shames
itself to energyspend and carrymore.  

But death is just waking up
on the wrong side of the bed
of roses.  

I know this because I have lost
myself in high fructose. Have lived in the flesh
of purple poppy-mallow. Have prostrated
before the one-eyed shasta stare and moseyed,
heart full of yesses,
across carpet sewn with pink and primrose gusto.   

Have given it something less than my all and yet
something more than it deserved of me.

A puckered, peevish woman in black taffeta tuts disapproval.

hummingbird is hovering
he darts, and he stirs
feasting on forsythia
he’s here; then he blurs
then he’s gone in an instant

maybe after a brunch shift?
after you left your dishes on the table?
or after you said “no” to 15% gratuity. 

rude isn’t how i would describe this place. 

the place where you stumble upon three regulars in an evening,
or should i say former regulars,
the women who i used to serve, who would regulate me, 
ask me how i was doing and not just what they wanted. 

the place where we visited beans (the cat) on her death bed,
perched on a chair in the florist,
looking out onto the greenhouse she called hers,
staff given time to say goodbye to the very best member of the team. 

the place where i return after my lover leaves town,
and i need to cry,
need to be held by a dear friend, pretzels in hand,
and told “i love you to death.”

so pocket the word rude, 
replace it with loving
& tip your fucking servers. 

Stare into your off- brand Honey Nut Cheerios and almond milk. 
You eat it over the same sink you wash away the bone powder from your arms with everyday…

Buying groceries today was a victory.

But nobody has the time to care. 

So smile for yourself. 

My troubles run deep. 

“These are the days of our lives. “

I sleep in my van, that has all my things,
outside of my employer. 
I cremate the deceased.
I’m saving for an apartment. 
My life was ruined.
My desire to accept toxicity poisoned me.
Naivety.
Confidence in a coma.
Nearly five years.
I’m starting anew.
I’m also branded. 
Off- brand.
An off- brand human. 
Another person who hasn’t got their shit together. 
Another not good enough yet. 
Disregard the lack of a life I’ve lived for five years. 
Disregard my mental state. 
I tapped out. 
I needed to have nothing. 

To become nothing. 

To bloom again. 

—–

A seed in your garden
that gave you a plant
began as a seed in a packet of seeds
you never gave a shit about. 

There is beauty in
All that is broken, and then
Mended with pure gold 

One moment can last an eternity
A moment in time that never goes away
Lingering like a smoke ring
Old desires never fade
Preserved on the pages of my soul
Found in the book of my existence
Written by a lover’s skillful hand
Your first will never be forgotten