highway

Driving on-
toward somewhere
where it isn't cold
and girls wear their hair up
in high, tufted ponytails-
even in January.

Driving on-
toward somewhere
where fingers don't freeze to the steering wheel
and breathing is easy and painless
where scarves are non-essential accessories
casually forgotten at home.

Driving on
toward somewhere
past here
somewhere ever moving
the point on the horizon
always there-
always, always there
never here.
toward somewhere
driving on.

everything

everything is dirt, dust, and water.
everything-
from it,
of it,
to it.
everything.

it turns to grass, and roads, and people-
and people, and people.
it turns to trees, and rocks, and ocean
and sky and on and on.

it turns to flowers that follow the sun
and stretch to touch it.
it turns to children who watch their mother
and cry to leave her
it turns to a house with flower beds
that grows smaller in rear view mirrors.

it hardens
it breaks
it softens
it reforms
and reforms
and repeats its cycle.

and on and on.

dirt, dust, and water.

it turns to flowers that wither with frost
and lie down in the shadows of the trees
it turns to children who see their mother
and cry when she leaves them
it turns to a house full of people, bearing flowers and sobriety
dressed in their very best blacks, and blank-faced expressions.

and goes to dirt, and dust, and water.

sunday

morning comes after noon.
breakfast of coffee,
lunch and dinner at seven.
it's odd-
when you have this
when nothing needs to be done
when the clothes are washed and hanging-
papers done and filed
bed still unmade-
how empty are your days.
but driving-
with the music,
with the singing,
and the wind-
this could be forever,
should be forever,
would be forever if it weren't for the bills-
the banker-
the bullshit.
so you sit waiting till spring
when it may be different.
wait for the long-planned and spontaneous move.
wait for the certain uncertainty that here-
in August
can still twist your stomach in knots.

alone by the window

poor little cafe girl,
hiding behind in your zip up,
eighteen and and already hating it-
and you're going gray inside.
behind your red curls
you're the girl who hates math
and just wants to be a teacher
but you are learning that you hate children
and they don't seem to care much for you.

if he would just appear in the doorway
make good on his promise
to keep you from another lonely dorm night
with the roommates who despise you
because they think you feel you're better than they are-
smarter than they are-
because you do
because you are.
they buy their groceries-
stock the communal refrigerator
and remind you-
with notes on your dry erase board
that you owe $24.11.
Don't pay it.
Just paint your nails and rebel
against them.

and she waits

she sits-
an hour, a year-
head in hand
lost in lost thought,
sipping tea,
biting her nails,
biting her lip,
biting her tongue-
speaking freely - without apology
to those who need to hear her
but won't
and don't.

She fights-
beats back the insistent,
incessant reminders of someone else-
reminders - constant and casual
sit by her,
ask her to pass the sugar,
how she spent her day,
and if she's busy.

She listens-
over and over again-
to the women whose words drown out her own
and spark her own
and amplify her own.

And she waits,
beside the black-eyed susans
who seem to try to tell her
"It could be so much worse than it is."

battle crier

"Be fearless" she called.
And they heard her.
"Be fearless."
And they listened hard.
And one by one, they joined the others,
and marched along with them-
toward the sun,
ever westward.

She watched them go away from her
towards her words-
reverberating against the caverns,
the hills
the farther places, unknown.
She called them on
pressed them forward-

"Be fearless." she called.
and they heard her.

moment us*

you wake me to tell me it's early
and the radiator is spitting again.
the coffee is cold already
and the cups don't match
they hang on the wall, sit on the table
yellow, red, and white-
each handcrafted and imperfect-
gifts from our mothers-
women who do not know us as well as their concern for us,
women who, since they learned of us, do not speak to us-
not even,
as we often joke they might,
to request that we send back the cups.
and we walk away from all of this
barefoot-
across the cold, pine, tongue and groove-
to where the walls are mismatched on purpose-
paneled, purple, and green.
the city below us
waking with us, before dawn,
keeps its head down
stoops its shoulders to defend itself from the wind.
but for us there is music to be heard
for us there is hushed laughter about dust and keys
for us there is whatever is not worrisome.
there is muffled, mumbled conversation
seeping through the floor vents-
unimportant and not for us to hear
but we sit,
barely breathing,
squinting our eyes to hear it clearer.
i lose interest first
and you go on,
proffering me with unnecessary narrative.
but a fresh cup of coffee
and you're on to the topic of the better taste
when it's french pressed
and how she used to make it that way.
"Maybe we should go to Philadelphia."
i say.
my friend is a chef in south jersey
we can have hospitality on the house
in the house near the museum
we can drink wine and sit on the couch.
it beats coffee that refuses to stay luke-warm in this air.
it beats the hard-backed, thrift store chairs.
it may be better than the unforgiving winter by the lake.
but you look up in time to see the first glimpse of morning orange and pink
and it reflects in your green eyes-
shines on your face
and i stay-
in this sudden spring-
beside you on someone else's discarded futon.

*selected for publication on Girls with Insurance!

amity

I love you.
You have to know that.
I'm not good at hiding things.
You have to have seen it.
You can't possibly be that stupid.
No one is that stupid.
Well - some people are.
But not you.
I couldn't love you if you were.
Perhaps I could
and even would.
But you would be different somehow
and the part of you that demands that I love you
would be diminished
less strong
easier to ignore.

You do not love me
not beyond the casual fondness
that you have for so many people.
Apart from a smile,
a wink
an inside joke that I am thrilled to share with you
there is no other affection.
Somehow though,
and perhaps against my better judgement-
I still love you for it.
That you stay where you are
with her
there
where you should be
away from me
makes me adore you all the more.

Infatuation is a thing so difficult for a person such as me to understand.

set

I am not what you are,
despite my best attempts-
that weren't really my best,
or even good.

I cannot speak prettily
of lions, trains, or jacaranda trees.

You zig-zag the country,
forever propelled forward-
ever moving,
pursuing,
building.

I do not travel beyond the immediacy of here.
I not meet,
greet,
neatly display my piles of accomplishments
on a folding table in a Unitarian Church basement-
despite the people
who need me to love them
who tell me I will.

I am not what you are.
I cannot twist words out of context
into something truer.
That's all you.

All that is you.
And it is beautiful.
And I am in awe.

There is not jealously,
no desire to follow you.

Just let me pay closer and closer attention.
And promise you'll never think me strange-
not more than I am.

And I will listen and listen
and build on my own
of my own
till they are adequate enough
for no one other than me.

On Clark Street

When the leaves go yellow
and hills quit their green
when the stars shine brighter against a blacker sky
and the air smells blue
when the aster stands bright and purple
and the late crocus opens its white and pink petals
when the land rallies before it finally gives in to gray
is the time when the world stands still.

When the air is crisp
and the chill of September creeps in at the edges
when the city walks faster by us
and you wear that thin, brown scarf -
forgetting, as you do every year -
that it will do nothing to keep you warm
and I wonder if I will ever tire of this annual forgetfulness
is the time when the world stands still.

When my mind wanders too far down that line
and I'm somewhere away from you
when the breeze picks up again
and the city breaks its silence
when you slip your hand into mine
and clasp our fingers together
and we walk, as we are, looking forward
is the time when the world stands still.

of late

i can remember - so clearly
the catholic school years
those mornings you'd wake me and make me french toast
my feet never touching the floor.
i remember when childhood tasted like maple syrup and orange juice -
before i liked it that way.

i can remember being that six year-old
before i felt that i had to earn something

i can remember the years that were lean
when you were working,
or busy,
or elsewhere
and i went to the father-daughter dances with no relation of mine
so many times
that when you came that one year i didn't like it
and didn't want to go again
and didn't.

i remember asking you, when i was fourteen
why you spent so much time with people
who weren't ever me
and you told me that they were your family
and you loved them
and instead of feeling anger
or hurt
or anything else one might expect
i turned around and went back to my homework
only mildly shocked by your idiocy
and my nonchalance.

i remember the first time you said you were proud
and at nineteen i had no faculties
no response
nothing but fear
and awe
and slight irritation that i waited for something that was hollow in the end

i remember retreats
i remember camps
i remember ministries that i strained to fit myself to
i remember memorization
and drills
and prayer circles that made it hard to breathe
and led you to think i needed therapy

i remember seeing the fear in your face
you were so terrified that what everyone was saying might be true
and when i asked if that would really be so bad
you only stared straight ahead
afraid to look at me
afraid to admit that i might not be what you expected
what you wanted
want you felt you deserved

i remember being too scared to walk away
making it all the way to twenty-six before i understood
that if things keep you awake
and introduce themselves to you as wrong
then maybe they are

it's strange
i can remember all of these things

i can remember loving you
the way a child does
i can remember hearing you say that you loved me.

i can't remember when i stopped
i can't remember when i gave up believing you
it was that long ago -

wide awake at 3 am

the one way to happy
the way to content
is to listen and hear her
and know what she meant when she said
what she said
when she sat next to you
about living outside
inside
and in two separate worlds
of her own design
that she's had painted green
serenely sublime.

The way is to listen
just listen and here is the answer
quite simple
and clearly a little bit out of your reach
if you don't understand what they say
when they teach you of people who cry when they laugh
about any old subject or two
and a half hour's more and you're already gone
ready for distance and rambling on.

But listen and hear it
it's there, and it's real
and she'll tell you her stories
and surely you'll feel that there's more than you know
and more even still
but you'll listen, intently
and know that you will find the one way to happy
the way to content
is to listen and hear her and know what she meant.

Across the table

Ask me a question,
anything at all.
And I might say yes,
or no.
Or I might go into exquisite detail
of my semester abroad.
When I got horribly drunk on Spanish wine,
and fell madly in love with Carlo,
and Pedro
and Isabella.
Or I might just look away
and smile
and say,
"It's better you not know."

Tower Hill

and the light comes in from the West,
comes in from the glass roof -
through the clear and shining ceiling
begging me to break it.

and it's warm,
uncomfortably warm,
flushed cheeks and shaking fingers
trying desperately to hold a fine line
somehow manage legible scrawl.

It was beautiful artwork outside,
hanging on an otherwise innocent wall -
a white, untouched panel.

Climbing roses - pink and dying on an interior brick face.

But it's too warm for me.
I must be flushed, I feel it.
I feel the heat - the choking closeness of the chewy air.

How inconspicuous can I hope to be -
slumped over in a top that insists it is low-cut,
a lap full of notebook.

Perhaps I made an error in judgement.

Perhaps I need a nap.
How will I make the drive home?
If I am exhausted now -
what can I possibly hope for?

It's breezy now,
and I can breathe.

Dear Someone

I used to think you were crazy.
I really did.
You'd sit in the corner,
headphones on,
music loud enough for me to hear it over the other cafe noise,
and you would read.

"How can you do that?" I would ask.
"How can you concentrate on Victorian Literature with the Beatles blasting in your head?"

And you'd look up, instinctively, because you couldn't have heard me.
You'd get that look on your face,
point to your ear, shake your head and mouth "What?"

And I would wave my hand and sigh -
a much-repeated motion which you always took to mean "Never mind"
but really meant "You're ridiculous"
and we'd go back to our respective books,
newspapers,
crossword puzzles,
bits of paper left over from the day.

Your eyes stayed fixed on the words,
not moving,
not even to see the cup you always easily found -
to sip your mocha chai latte.
"It mellows out the clove." You would say.

And I'd watch you read.
I thought you were crazy.