What do you call a woman sitting at an airport bar

heelspantsbeltblazer sitting up straight;

at-ease?

I used to think becoming her 

was a matter of perception.

ie. manipulation of the viewer’s thinking, and

what their seeing…

A fake it until you make it. 

Tonight, I read Joan Didion’s essay, 

“On Self Respect”,

and it makes me think about dating. 

How many of us have chosen partners who perceive us 

well yet 

do not fully see us?

I know it’s moreso a matter of internal position. 

How do I feel about I? 

But how seamlessly do the flaws come out overtime without prodding?

How much must I know about myself to

put forth the true version?

I don’t write for the public eye

A stunning silence in the air
A quiet that pervades, permeates 

The essence of this night
Outside the noise of human action  

Be it the full moon
Emanating such light

Or a night that has broke
From the cold spell of days passed

Now gone unusually warm
With the scent of spring

The living room is like dusk on this
cloudy day, rain pours off and on,
I read off and on.

We are scattered around the house,
weaving through rooms, intersecting
here and there to comment on the weather,

books, sketch pads, cellphones in hand.
At lunchtime, we all move toward
the kitchen, talk about what to eat,

prepare food, bumping into each other’s
hips, brushing hands, our dog stays under
our feet as the aroma of sautéed veggies,

garden burgers, and cheese fills the air.
We eat while chatting, flitting about in activities
that we grasp with both hands, holding our

breath before Monday morning.
Time stretches like a cat, but folds
back together just as quick

catching us off guard at bedtime.

I’m not your shining white

knight. get it straight, I’m

your gardener pulling all

the weeds except the ones

which bloom beside you

in the living room where I

found you, slipping your words

around mine. it’s been awhile

since I fell for a rascal. don’t

hold my hand and tell me all

that I already know. where have

you gone this whole time, went

and got married but found me

at the corner of oblivion. life

they say, has an easy time changing.

My folder from graduation sits on the backseat of my car,

I see myself there–
a small house tucked under trees
looking down on water.
One table, one chair, one plate.

For company, only creatures
with four legs or two wings.
They go about their business
unconcerned with me. 

For conversation, only songs
that rise from bullfrogs, fall
from birds, ruffle through trees,
tap softly on the roof.

Would I miss them–
strangers on the street, 
living their intense lives,
too busy to notice me?

Insistent beat of someone
else’s music, broken bits
of conversations, half heard
stories hinting at other worlds?

And if I never heard
another siren, 
how would I know
when to pray?

Flowering vines and weeds snake around the abandoned garden beds

The bushes don unkempt hair styles

Thin branches reaching farther into the sky

Than they’ve ever been allowed before

Like worshiping arms wide open mid gospel

My neglect translates to their freedom

The grass battles with clover and dead nettle,

blooms peppered around the yard

Like late spring confetti

A Japanese maple throws out sparse maroon leaves in rough patches, like gasping breaths

before resigning to its forced, final slumber

Rabbits have found refuge in the tall grass

They praise the broken weed eater

Which provided them this sweet fortune

Babies hidden will soon frolic among the fern fronds

They’ll feast on the forgotten pepper plants

Make waste of the tomatoes and cucumbers

A pest potluck theirs for the taking

This deserted yard their own utopia

Suddenly I feel less guilty

About letting the lawn go

The dull pain spreads,
The top of my head,
My forehead,
Behind my eyes,
Under my nose,
Behind my ears,
The back of my head,
Inside my brain,
Into my thoughts,
Around my heart,
Over my life.

The baseball court is sogged with water and the trees shudder and bend close together
The constancy of the rain 
         rippling circle, circle, circle 
mirrors the relentless small wet feet on the pool deck 
                          slapping thwack, thwack, thwack 
Reveling in the graciousness of god to turn off the thunder
A rhythmic duet punctuated by WAAAAALK 
as the lifeguards shake their pruny fists with gooseflesh arms
huddled under hole-riddled umbrellas
One small little girl 
Dark curls drenched down to the tutu connected to her swimsuit 
(which her mother must comb through to protest every night) 
bears a smile despite the chill her small body endures 
As warm as a dwarf star burning bright in a rippled Van Gogh sky