nineteen

I remember the thrill of you-
your nerves
and excitement
and apprehension.
I could see all the wonder,
everything you must have thought
for all those twenty minutes
and throughout the night we shared that twin bed.
And in the morning,
when you kissed me hello
and goodbye
I walked, proudly, home
and wore their stares
and whispers
and laughter
likes badges of honor
all the way to my small room
with the window that faced the brick wall.

gravity

the weight of it-
pushing down, down,
down upon me
farther into the ground
into myself-
the weight of it
of him pressing into me,
his hip into my thigh
his face against my neck
his hands moving,
moving - ever moving
up, over, around, under
and back again,
no terrain left unexplored-
the weight of it
as I told myself this was what I wanted
this was what I wanted
this is what I wanted...
until it all trailed off
and I waited
and he groped,
and groaned,
and murmured feigned "I love you"s
in the dark
with the dirt caught in my hair-
the weight of it
as I lied that I enjoyed it
and lied that we'd only been talking
and lay awake alone
freshly scrubbed and scented
awaiting-
fearing dawn.

taste

the spice and the sugar
the sweet, sweet heat
in a cup
in a flash
for a moment
then it's gone
until another
and another
and another
until the air is no longer dry
from the water that hangs in the air
and turns the world to steam
and we wait
for the sun to set
and stay there
so we can paint our lips
with cocoa and cayenne
once more.

to dust

the city
shrouded in gray and white
resembles Currier and Ives
gone somehow wrong.
It's the city I've seen
through this window
from this seat-
vinyl and wearing thin,
in the diner I've known
since I was old enough to know something
on my own.
When spring paints the hills
in pinks, yellows, and blues-
or summer dyes everything
a deep, emerald green-
and Autumn turns all there is
to rust and rustling-
it is nothing.
All this is dull
and heavy
and too busy, hot, and oppressive.
But the Winter-
with it's gray and dirt-caked splendor-
this is beauty,
this is the beginning
of the frozen,
and the glowing,
and the shimmering, breathless night.

the women

I watch them all
the old women-
the gravel-voice
cackle laughing former smokers-
grandmothers, all.
they remind me of Clara
how she would have been
if she had be harder.
They see me walk in
still tired and disheveled
a head full of hair that will not be smoothed
they see someone they might like better
than the girls their grandsons brings over at Christmas
I see them-
the lines on their faces
that finally allow them to be honest with each other
I see us
who we will be
when we are softer.

marathon

too familiar
the feeling of unease.
it's unalarming
when it comes without warning.
and it means nothing
it means anything
means everything.
and then how easily it is forgotten
ignored,
shaken off and banished-
where it grows stronger
and stays dull.
and you wait again,
breathe again,
stretch again-
convince yourself again
that it still isn't stronger than you.

the dream

faces of frozen glass
eyes of calm
scan the women
and the children
for a new soul to incarcerate
another body to overtake
overrun
and overturn
to exhaustion.
standing shoulder to shoulder
the silent army lingers
and waits to walk beside her
and whisper in her ear
“imprecazione”.

blood

I have listened to your diatribes-
your well-rehearsed tirades
that you speak at me.
I am not strong enough
I am too weak-willed,
too forgiving-
not demanding enough of them-
too demanding of you.
I have waited outside
for you to return to tolerable.
I have waited inside
for you to deem me worthy of a
"good morning"-
forced myself to be satisfied
comforted by the quick, cold stare-
and the warmth you may eventually feel
that you don't seem to
when I am in your way.
I have felt you watch me
pick apart every move
and roll your eyes in disgust.
I have heard you laugh-
heartily-
at my need to investigate
and my desire to find some common ground
with those whom you despise-
whom I only dislike.
In spite of this,
or perhaps because of all of this-
I love you.
Because it's the right thing to do.
Because I've also seen the true smile-
heard the real laugh-
shared the joy
and seen you cry- hard
when your heart was rended as mine.
And because - no matter how often to say otherwise-
I know you love me too.

withdrawal

I miss the rush-
the floating illusion
the delicate wings
that grow and disappear
and emerge again
to fade again.
the breathing in
of gray heat
the breathing out
of a pure, white lie
I miss the allure
the feeling of power
that comes from
holding your life
in two fingers-
before you toss another piece of it away.
I miss the draw
and the pull
the ache
and the burn-
the euphoric accomplishment
of cheating death
once more.

waiting on Erato

I have sat
and listened,
waiting.
and still

silence.

still

through the gauzy curtains in the living room
everything is simpler.
details are blurred
and more easily swallowed.
the white panels that hang in the window
make all of it quieter.
But only when the sun is down
and on the other side of the world
and the black damask sky
lets all of us forget
and re-imagine-
until the morning
when we all go on.

farewell to suburbia

a slip of paper,
from the stack in her dressing table drawer
blue and delicate
with its glittering monogram
her “M”
his “J”
and their shared “W”,
met him in the kitchen.
she had left it there,
where he would see it
folded over,
next to the glass
and the bottle.
no explanation
or request for forgiveness
or acceptance was offered
no regrets expressed
about the plans to visit Paris
and walk along the Champs Élysées.
she would still go-
he knew.
and he read.
« Je ne vous aime pas.
Au revoir »

student-teacher

i remember when I chain-smoked
paid fifty cents for burnt coffee
because it made me avant-garde-
it said that i didn't care-
and thought i had all the answers.
i didn't-
and i knew that.
i was well aware that i was full of it.
but that rarely deterred me-
never stopped my desire to speak.
i would not be silent.
now you drink the same shit-stain coffee,
fight with the same washing machines
hide the same beer cans
behind the same mattress-
and you sit
and you know it all now.
but you actually might
and i wait to watch
to hear
and listen-
hoping that some of it
maybe just a piece of it
will rub off
via the internet.

the lily guard

unaware they were not growing
unaware they were unsatisfied
unaware that there was better
they sat silent-
biding time.

until she told them to keep looking
gave them mirrors
gave them music
gave them everything but silence
asking nothing in return.

and they bloomed without resistance
pushing past the vain traditions
stretching up and out and over
wanting nothing
but to follow.

and the few grew into dozens
and the dozens into hundreds
spread across the fields and outward
rooted deep
no two the same.

the yellow house

the juice box was mushy from the condensation
and crushed under the pressure of the straw
and the ants poured from the cracks in the sidewalk
up from the mountains of sand-
they charged the roly-poly bugs
and gathered around the cookie crumbs
and the fruit punch that dripped on the concrete steps,
while I captured crickets in a paper cup
and listened to them jumping-
spring into the side of the Dixie fortress
till they stopped,
and I feared they had run out of air.

I hung from the branches of the red maple
and dogwood trees
and wished I could sit there forever
with an orange.
I rolled down the hill in my pink and white sundress
now permanently grass-stained.
I planted the tulips.
I waited each year
for the same, reddish-pink to emerge from the ground.
They still bloom, by the lilacs
hydrangeas and roses
the crocuses, daffodils, irises, peonies-
all of them grow in the place they were planted
but I cannot see them.

I'm gone from that place.
I'm gone from the house and the yard and stairs.
They're there in my place now
and they see what I saw
and have no idea what all of it means.

missing

because today I slept late
and woke feeling sluggish
and achy
and you weren't home
already out,
doing whatever it is you do
and I wondered about that
for only a minute
until it made my head hurt

because the coffee was opaque
and I couldn't work up the energy to make more
afraid that I would make too much
or not enough
if you were to come home and want some,

because the sky was blue
and clear
and the day called to me
"go for a walk, get some fresh air."
but I answered back
without making noise
that I hurt too much
would not accomplish enough,

because the leaves rustled,
tumbled down the road
and the trees cast shadows on the walls
and I hid from them
not wanting them to see that even they-
rooted to the ground
were doing more
and moving more
and changing more than I,

because it was five o'clock,
and then it was six,
seven,
eleven,
and you still weren't here
like you hadn't been here yesterday
and the day before
and the day before,

because people called
and sent me notes
and tried to appeal to my common sense
and non-emotions
to convince me that everything happens for a reason
and that I would keep going
whether I wanted to or not,

because of all of that
and because you were the one person
the only person
who could have
would have brought me some relief
but didn't-
I will hide from the trees again tomorrow
and the next day
and the day after that,
until they don't scare me anymore,
and even then...