Author
as dreams
t r i p
over consciousness
so does my mind
trip over you
and in waking I
can hardly
remember
anything but the lingering
fade of
your soul
sitting with me
as if
r e a c h i n g
back through
the years,
the same and yet
not the same
bittersweet friend
once so
much more
and I can’t
help it–
I miss you.
I’m shy sometimes
but you’re not when it comes to me.
my gift to you, poems
about us
vulnerability and the way
your body feels against mine–
I felt bold writing them
and small when I handed them to you.
but when you read them, you are
crying, the good kind of cry
and just wanted to hold me
as you read
the last few words
and then
I didn’t feel so shy after all.
– 2/14
the hawk rides the line
between love and death
air life and fire talons
a knife, a winged
daydream, nightmare
memory and red hope
warmth and burning. it kills
the small fragile things
you want to hold onto
but can’t forget and yet
it is freedom gift
wing-lift, singing
in the pines–
and you can’t help
but be savagely grateful.
– 2/6
the purpose of me continues
to shapeshift and I’m still finding my
footing in this weird dance, after he
spun me around so
severely, toes tripping
over themselves, bruised.
my purpose once was leaning into him
walking beside, cheering,
loving as he
struggled
home to himself
but when he pushed me away I
found I’d lost
myself too.
my purpose then became keeping
air in my lungs, not losing
the will to keep on
keep on
keep on drawing the breath in
even as it scraped my throat raw
blood protesting.
and then, there were soft
paws and eyes looking up
adoringly, believing I would
stay as an undeniable reality and my
universe revolved around wet nose and
kisses when I came home and
a wild heart which wouldn’t understand if
one day I just didn’t show–
and a little purpose returned like a
kite reeled in by string
back to the unsteady hands of a child–
to protect her.
and then, you came along.
green eyes and gentle palms and
not forbidden lips I could kiss and you never
drew back, pressing closer
closer, closer
until I could feel my own heartbeat again
pressed against you.
and a little more of the
purpose of me returned
like sand trickling into an hourglass–
to love you.
and now, ring on my finger
pup at my side
I wonder where this purpose
will lead me next, what part of me
will be returned
or uncovered,
perhaps next I will learn
to have a purpose
just
and only
for me.
– 2/18
flower to
bees to
honey
gold to
gold to
gold
meeting to
hand-holding to
ring on finger
gold
to
gold
to
gold
sunset fire to
moon gleam to
dawn blush
gold
to
gold
to
gold
your skin under
sunbeam to
kiss on
tongue dance
gold
to
gold
to
GOLD
– 2/6
what would it mean
to breathe a life
of imagination?
colors would bleed
from my fingers,
unfurling wildflowers
would burst
from where my bare feet
have stepped.
and inside? –inside me
there would be a forest
no voice could penetrate
which I did not let in
which was not welcome.
the solemn green lushness
of it would
cocoon me
lifting me to fly on
whisper soft wings
dark and sunshaft woven
into the fabric of me.
a song made ephemerally
solid, spearing gently
through the trees.
– 2/6
I wonder why you like Julien Baker.
At first I thought, the way
she sings–
but no.
Because we listen ’cause we’re drawn
to the heartbreak in her voice
finally, someone who
understands
even if we can’t admit it to ourselves
even as we cry tears
of relief.
So why
you?
What are you drawn to,
in her words?
Always so happy,
bouncy,
compartmentalized
even when life isn’t
perfect.
What is it in you that
draws you, magnetizing
to her words
a homing beacon, a haven?
Maybe I’ve got it all wrong.
Maybe it’s just
the music.
But how is it possible to not
bleed at the sound
of a heart breaking,
how can you not
have a wound of your own?
I know you do
half-processed, half-buried
under childhood years and
moving on
and yet–sometimes I see the boy
and then the teen in your eyes, your
hands, as you grip me close–
before you put it all away
like nothing happened
and are you, full of light again,
where those words can’t reach,
crooning, into the dark of you
that corner we all have.
But whether or not you show it
or even know it, yourself
whether or not your tongue can
admit it, or even if
the confession trips
off your teeth–
know, that as we listen. sing
along together.
my heart knows yours
masks and all.
– 1/27/22
when I think of my Abba
I think of all the things
he gave me
to show me he loved me
when I couldn’t–wouldn’t
accept it, didn’t
feel safe in it.
puppy kisses and the smell
of living fur
laughs and rowdiness around
friendsgiving table
the cool wind pushing through
my hair and the rough rock beneath
my fingertips
the laugh I hadn’t felt in days
weeks, months
the boy growing up without me
soon to be my world.
when I couldn’t–wouldn’t
think of him as safe
he crowned me as queen in all
the little ways he knew
would mean something to me
and in it all
instead of shouting his love
from the mountaintops
he was caring enough
to whisper.
– 12/6
take me the way
the Wild Things go
over the snowy hills and the
dirt warmth below
take me the way of
pleasure and pain
as long as you always
lead me home again
take me the way
of the Wild black crows
the tumbling badgers and
fleet footed fawns
take me the way
the Wild Things go
to drink from a creek
fed by melting snow
take me away
lead me by the hand
no need to know
where I go
only where we land.
– 12/6
Lately, I’ve been afraid.
Afraid of seeing him walk
through that door. Afraid
of not seeing him. Of not
knowing, if he’s okay.
But lately, more afraid of
that shaken up feeling, like
a jar that’s been violently
thrown back and forth until
everything’s mixed up
everywhere and things that
had settled to the bottom
are no longer settled but
floating around, suspended
queasy inside, and things that
were clear are no longer
clear and everything is a
jumbled mess of not being
where it’s supposed to be
and not being able to
orient myself like I am
floating in the middle lost
in the memory of used to be
and the empty of what could
have been and the hollow that
is now–can you blame me?