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.