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He says he likes fishing
and painting the ocean,
and I wonder if
truly ordinary people
exist,
or are those just the ones
you haven’t looked at
close enough
to see.
what do i remember? the tone in your voice
when you said my false name, the laughter
amongst you and your friends, the inside jokes,
the getting off, the pretending that’s not why I was there,
the facade of not being demeaned, the gaze of being watched,
the exhaustion of holding everything together, the silence
of your disappearances, the characters on display,
the wish to be amongst the sea peoples in glorious adventure,
the boyishness of your insecurities splayed out against the screen,
the way in which your confidence masked it all, the passion
for life and the things you enjoyed, the confusion of just not seeing
the whole picture, they reaction when i said your true name without knowing,
the truths we told each other amongst all the lies, the search for beauty
in the depths of our disillusionment, they way hoping to talk to you
kept me here another day, the meaning of your friendship,
the unrelenting question of what was real, and the frustration that felt so good.
to the fairest,
i’m sorry and your welcome,
thank you and forgive me,
you did not ask for this,
but no one could play this part but you.
do not
or belittle your words
try to turn them
away from Webster’s purpose
shape them solely
for someone else
serifed soldiers, ready
for the battle
raging now
in our hearts
across country,
across worlds
(Dr. Hue returns at the end of July.
Helen is occupied with Julio.
Brian, a man at I met at Felicitous
Coffeehouse, is an avid birder.
We spend Mondays at Lettuce Lake,
a wildlife refuge on the Hillsboro River.
He is more than my field guide)
filtered light
tangled up
in swampy marsh
palmetto undergrowth
cypress with knees pressed tight
this cloth of wild
where osprey prey,
one young man, one old
hold their breath
hold hands
watch and listen
for the Qua Bird
his gutteral call
suddenly silenced
as his vicious
beak in fast slash
spears a fish
he swallows whole
a holy act
of true communion
Want outdoor shower.
What could be more poetic?
summer, fall, cold—–
STARS!
Your aura takes no prisoners, your vibe cascades into harmonies, your smile burns my unsurities, and your hair —
Well
Your hair
For Hannah and Charlie
Burning tongues with French classroom coffee,
laying in the schoolyard in cold gold sun, haloed
by leaves the same candy apple red as my hair,
we lived briefly beautiful. You kept on living
when my vanishing act lost all of its magic.
Now I dream of before: the gas station journeys,
the art room philosophy conversations, Snoopy
and Elliott Smith and pet photos in the group chat.
Those days we’d walk through ginkgos to the Co-Op,
and I still remember the bakery blueberry danish
you bought me, all those apple chais, staking out
the booth seats. Curled in my purple corduroy coat,
I’d marvel over your rainbow dye job, your cover
of Videotape by Radiohead. When I could still drive,
the first with a license, I’d sit in my car an hour early
to school, watching the sunrise creep over football field
guarded by a chain link fence vined with morning glories.
My windows were tinted so violet, it was like sinking
into a tranquil void. Yet somehow the city streetlights
to your house still shimmered after homecoming,
after the Fourth of July I was hit-and-run rear-ended,
after all those afterschool lingerings, after park days
and Halloween pumpkin gutting and music video making.
The way home was always singing Ann Don’t Cry.
Now I don’t sing anymore. I hover silently paralyzed
over this phone line, knowing you’d welcome me
anytime with love forever, knowing I could never
blink past the shame of this strange stunted goodbye.
