Far away lover,
vocal echoes through phone lines,
long distance darling

Your name is 

Climbing in the driver’s seat of my Shitty Chevy has always made me feel in control.
The Passenger Princess life never suited me.
Not knowing when you’d leave
no say in whether you stop for food on the way
no choice in the music
or if the windows are up or down.

So why do I readily climb in the passengers seat 
of your equally shitty Kia Rondo with such ease?

The thrill of freedom
only lasts so long; I am
running to closed arms

Sweet chocolate ice cream drips off your lip 
The water doesn’t give you goosebumps when you jump in
A cotton dress and some old sandals
A turkey sandwich resting on the blanket in the grass
The lightning bug hitching a ride in my car
Our lawn chairs shaded in the garage
A dog bowl full of water on the porch
Running barefoot across the hot pavement
June brings us the candid doings,
The sweet nothings that make up summertime
The simplicities that we’ll forget,
Until we meet her again

Heat rises the room.
Then, outside, a downpour cuts
the sky and heat down. 

if I thought begging would get me anywhere,
I would do it. gladly, loudly. 
over and over. 
if I thought you would listen for a moment,
I would speak. beg, plead. 
over and over. 
if I thought I could change something, 
I would do it. little, by little.
over and over. 

but all my begging, 
all my speaking, 
all my glad, loud pleading,
all the things I would change,
always ends the same.
over and over. 

When I sleep I bury my fists
under the ledge of my ribs.
One day I will be so empty
I will be able to reach far enough
up into myself to grasp my heart.

When I hold it, feel its slow 
contractions, will I finally find
myself? Will I tighten my grip?
Or will I cradle it gently, a dove
in my palm, a precious thing?

And if it is so truly precious, 
how will I fight the urge to rip it out,
to dissect it, to study it in the light, 
silenced and stilled and ruined?
How, when I know I am so brutal?

In that murky time between awake
and asleep, when rational mind
lets go but subconscious does not
yet take over, I find myself floating

on memories. First best friend,
the fake pond the park service 
poured behind our houses, skating
into the early northern darkness. 

Or my first days living in a foreign
language, when the French I thought 
I knew deserted me, left me wordless
and humble, a long way from home. 

Dad’s garage began with basic tools
     hammer, wrenches in a red box
The collection grew
     camping gear, Christmas decor, bicycles
every nook and cranny packed
     like starved sardines

Dad’s skill for finding the elusive
tidbit gained him notoriety in our family
Only he could find anything in that 
     beautiful mess of a system
     for years

All Dad’s things 
     and some of ours
are still there
     lurking in shadows yet
lost to him

The pile we used to tease him about
     All those countless items have
taken on new meaning for
     nameless 

“I think my brain is breaking”
he said