Author
I hate spring
my favorite season
new buds the liveliest color
eager but shy
peeking out from tree tips
we roamed the night world then
discovering you
discovering me
and back again
I fell in love in the spring
I can’t bear the wind now
traces of warmth
green awakening
bittersweet kiss
The moon speaks–
don’t let anyone tell you any different.
It listens when I say, ‘I love you’
and shines the message down to wherever
you may be
in hopes that you’ll answer.
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.
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
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
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
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.
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
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