Ashley Wilda

Author

Category: Uncategorized (page 1 of 15)

wishing on a snowflake

I don’t know what you think of

when it snows

but as the cold fluff floats down

beyond my window

I am living in two Januaries past

moments frozen in time

like icicles hanging from bare branches.

I remember pizza frozen on the picnic table

beet and brussel-sprout soup in a stranger’s cabin

we could only reach by bounding through the drifts like bunnies

cold nutella smeared on bread.

I remember wet rock and a slick ride in the dark

peeing on the side of the road and laughing

at the headlights

your bare back as we lay by the fire

and slipped gratefully into the dark

behind our closed eyelids.

I remember the hush of the forest

all green and white and black bark

unbroken ground

the very air crystal

mist hovering in the gorge

forest and river more sacred than any church

I have ever seen.

I remember coming home to fires

and tea in the mornings

and how happy I was when you knew

just where to find it in my pantry

all by yourself.

I remember walloping each other with snowballs

slipping down the hill on a sled stacked three long

betting on who’d swim in the lake

teaming up to tackle you into the snow

the satisfaction of catching up to you

of hearing your laugh

in the empty neighborhood streets.

I wonder what you’re doing now

I bet you’re stealing trays from dhall

and sliding down library hill

there’s a snowball fight on the green

and maybe even frisbee with the crew

you’re still the fastest of them all

and nobody minds.

I’m still here

watching the snow fall

with a small sad smile

wishing I was with you.

doubting Thomas

I named the Christmas tree Thomas

I can barely look at him

it’s not his fault, you know

Christmas and I just have a few issues

a few holes that faerie lights can’t fill

but I named him Thomas all the same

for the boy who saw the scars

and believed in love

soul and body

I’m not sure why I can only

accept my body when I

can see the muscles in my back

when my harness is as small as it

will go and the belt is on its

innermost hole

I shrink because I am sad

not because I am trying

I disappear in so many other ways

already, I don’t need another

it’s just another thing I notice

about myself that I wish could

be different

but then again, I never feel like

my hands have a purpose unless

they are loving someone

and I guess that is the problem

whether I am enough or found lacking

has entirely to do with which eyes

I am looking with today

and nothing at all to do

with the body I am wearing

on being here

she heard me laughing

and said it made her happy

to know that somewhere I

was enjoying myself

what a concept–enjoying

being here, being me

I was glad she told me

it being all to easy to forget

that every unconscious laugh

is a victory

how many senses do we have, anyway?

The smoky blue mountains are sheeted with tan and brown rock

the road twisting grey through the spectrum of gold and fire

leaves drifting in the wind like whirligig seed wishes

the mist billowing up in the valley and tickling

the roots of the trees perched atop the cliffs.

Small rocks, big rocks, rough rocks, smooth rocks

arches and tunnels and cracks and corners

square crash-pad people wandering through the forest

chalk snow and cold shoes and hand warmers you find

days after in the pockets of your coat.

The snick-shutter of the camera lens

the whirrr of the polaroid processing a memory

the way my eyes zero in on the blood I left

behind that finger-bucket rail on that

pesky V3 with the terrible topout.

Laughter and board games and mangoes for breakfast

too many people sharing one bathroom

deciding who gets to play first

by who took a crap last, the warmth of

snuggling with a friend I thought I’d lost

so long ago and feeling glad to be me

in what feels like even longer

grasping at a few days when I don’t

have to sleep alone and am not filled

with emptiness at the sight of the sun in the morning

and every night before I close my eyes

my fingers find the smooth wooden back

of a bird tucked into the small pocket

of my pack, keeping you as close

to my heart as ever.

safe place

why do I feel like I should come

with a caveat–

prone to exhaustion

chronic sadness

and sudden panic

why do I feel the need to tell everyone

and yet am too afraid

to tell anyone

or when I do, to say it

seriously

why am I afraid of being treated too harshly

or pitied, like I’m not enough

when I am my own worst critic

easier to pull the blinds

lock the door

be myself where there’s no one

to judge or comfort

things I’m learning about God

  1. He doesn’t hide
  2. even when we do.
  3. When he calls us
  4. he won’t shame us
  5. he doesn’t embarrass.
  6. He loves to tell us
  7. how much we are loved
  8. loves to hear us
  9. say anything at all to him.
  10. He wants me to use my mind
  11. not shut it off
  12. he’s not afraid of doubt
  13. or reason
  14. or science
  15. or impossibilities
  16. or anger or pain or fear.
  17. He doesn’t see me and demand
  18. heal, believe, be strong
  19. he just holds all my broken pieces
  20. until I’m ready to breathe.
  21. He knows that intimacy
  22. sometimes feels like pain
  23. and doesn’t judge me
  24. for weeping when he says
  25. I love you, and you are mine.

folds

I am a paper doll girl

good at shutting up

and folding down

disappearing

into herself

I’d rather be a

paper plane girl

with wings that lift

but only you can fold me

into a shape that flies

present tense

it’s hard to live in the present

when my love is present tense

and all the memories are past.

I’ve been sitting on theĀ  curb

on the street where we last parted

watching the cars zip by

waiting for you to come along

and take my hand again.

it’s been raining and I’m cold

and wet and I realize that if

I stay out here I won’t survive

yet moving feels like a betrayal.

but lights glisten on the puddles

in the asphalt and I want things

I want you and I just plainĀ want,

so I get up and go about making

my life up from nothing.

first comes school and then work

the typing alone in my room

and serving coffee to strangers

who don’t see past my half-smile,

second comes climbing walls and

trips up a mountain and

the new thrill of lips to a microphone

my own voice coming back at me

through the speakers and money

jangling in the tip jar,

third comes writing all the memories

I never thought I could put to the page

along with dreams I’m scared

will never happen but here I am

writing them down anyway.

perhaps fourth comes an apartment

in a place a bit farther away

a place where I get up in the morning

stretch my toes in the sunlight

and ask the sky how you are

for it sees you more than I these days,

perhaps it is pulling on clothes and

brewing a pot of earl gray

sitting down at the little table

steam curling, kettle warm

setting out two mugs, just in case

just in case you walk through that door

that I just can’t stop watching.

two, too, to?

a bridge half-built

you turned away

I’m still standing

toes over the edge

 

a bridge half-built

two hands reaching

two hands empty

too far away

too little courage

to make the leap

Older posts

© 2018 Ashley Wilda

Theme by Anders NorenUp ↑