1
smooth glassine laketop
mirrors lilac cloud bellies
sheen stirs to ripples
water flows with new intent
urges ambition
She’s the one who’s barefoot
Calluses like scars, braving the blacktop.
She always pushed just a little harder
walked a little farther
toes to the edge, peeking over with held breath.
I stopped jumping
years ago.
Fearing not just the impact
but the belly rush of adrenaline on the way down
always wanting more.
My wild twin reaches for me now
Hold my hand, she sings
Hold your breath.
I take off my shoes.
A congress of cicadas on the bush at the tip of my driveway,
the edge of the sidewalk where the concrete lip
rises and falls into a storm drain where
the water wails after a subtle rain,
those days more often than not
when the clouds come together and the skies cry,
the clouds that hold the sun at bay,
that keep shadows over the streets
and houses and foreheads,
that gloom the summer days and evenings,
time meant for family television and barbecue
and tossed Frisbees in the backyard,
time meant for sweat and song,
the music of the city like screaming insects,
neither pleasant nor putrid, neither pleasure nor pain,
merely gentle drops on hot skin,
cool reminders of some great balance
that takes years to comprehend.
“Feel the breeze,” you said.
-so I lifted my arms
to feel
the wonder-
The earth is round, but we do not fall through its ground until death has signed
its lease with us.
I am not the architect.
How could I be?
I do not know how to grind
the sunny stink of marigolds
into a yellow paste
meant for sky painting.
Those before and near me
have left directions, recipes,
but how will I reach the sun,
and where will my ladder rest?
You, not I, ripple.
You ripple across
the stillness of leaves and ponds,
forgotten sidewalks,
rusted trailer rooftops,
and blooming thoughts
waiting for harvest.
I am only here
to witness your truths.
ain’t ain’t a word
and they won’t always understand you
when i was young i tried to hide the curled ends of my words
instead, grasping on to the way my family in ohio spoke
mocking the way their mouths shape through an a,
sayin’ everybody instead of y’all
afraid people’d stop listening if they could guess where i’m from
i’d stop strangers, tell them to guess what i talk like
prayin’ they say some neutral state situated smack in the middle,
somewhere they finish their words through the end-ing
when my great grandpa’d call
he only understood a twang
an instinct i can’t repress if i get talkin’ too fast
or have a couple of drinks
now grandpa can’t call me no more
and i miss the drawl of his voice
but i keep talkin’ on the phone to him,
or rather, he talks to me and i answer
in the twang he understood
At three o’clock,
I stood behind one of the twins’ chairs,
resting my hands on either side
of the weathered metal
listening to the conversation
she was having with her manager
from work.
I wanted to look busy
for the short two hours
I was standing in their backyard
with people I didn’t want to see,
among mismatched fold-out tables and chairs
where strangers clung to familiar faces
in exclusive cliques they wouldn’t form otherwise.
Who wouldn’t?
A little wooden birdhouse
hung low from a branch of the lone tree
blowing around in the wind,
taunting me—
persisting against the occasional harsh gust
that sent plastic tablecloths
flittering noisily about.
A game of corn hole,
once the most popular distractor,
now lay a bygone relic in the backdrop.
I only said goodbye
to one twin
before I slipped away.
At five o’clock,
I gave my last stop
a halfhearted side hug.
He was more interested
in his male counterparts
that had shown up,
so I befriended his darling cousin
from Tennessee,
who watched me struggle to the ground
on a bad leg
to stick my feet in the pool.
A little boy I’d never met
emerged from the rippling waves
to fling water into my lap.
We walked back down the hill
to sit in a circle
and play a game of cards
I’d never heard of
while they talked about
their future endeavors.
And I’d decided
I’d had my fill
of celebrations
for the day.
His tongue was a dollop of
In the Prather days I had a cheek kiss
on call. My whole body was slightly
greyed out as I bit my own hand, not
drawing blood, but watercolor thinning.
Trying to get White the wrong way.
I loved to be a pet and I’d stopped waxing.
Prather took the pages of my paint
and fanned herself, looking deep at me:
“You are writing yourself over
and over again. Why are you afraid?”
I sat by the window, a conch often.
How can you look at a young girl
for that long without something scraping
up inside you? I don’t blame her.
A year after she left she wanted me
and kiss to hear Ada Limon read with her
but we were going with her replacement
that week. Still, a strong winter gust
makes me want to novel it out, pay up
two hundred pages, some cash,
cinnamon cookies. Some, even
with encouragement, fail to lie.
When I think I’ve had enough
You always give me a grin
A little bit further
One more minute
In these moments we find the best of everything
A waterfall around the bend
Turns out
I always love the last band
I promised myself
I’d open my heart once again
There you were, ready to take my hand
With you I’ll take one more anything
One more drink
One more song
One more last dance
