Fall 2022

My new pair of shoes.

Stiff leather

brought together with

thick threads and

even stitches.

Tight, with two pairs of socks.

The table at home.

Splotched with worn circles

and dotted with old

sharpie marks

from when I would color.

Hard crumbs from past meals.

Sharp earth;

gritty, in between fingers.

Little creatures exit their

home

and crawl up my arms.

I smile.

Me. 

My skin;

with all it’s mysterious dark spots

and scars from old habits.

Running a hand across it–

it feels unreal.

It has been 196 days since my heart has been open,

Which is 53.70% of a year.

My emotions were safeguarded and stored away and reserved for the flower boy,

But not kept under lock and key, only crown.

The hands holding this heart clutched at it firmly, promised,

“Now you share with him.”

Not half of a whole (still whole, always whole) but

Constantly in a state of compromise and admiration and take my attention, unpack your burdens.

Even after the flower boy’s petals wilted (as I wish I knew they were destined to),

I still held the heart away (63 days it’s just been mine, mine alone, 17.26%).

It wasn’t ready to be opened again—

I had to hold it all by myself,

Coax it back to me.

I refused to surrender care for it,

Refused to break it,

Shatter it,

Abandon it without word or caution or care.

I would be quite the opposite, a warden,

The reminder that spring comes every year and that hearts bloom in rhythm,

For they are far more beautiful and powerful flowers than he ever was.

So at last the petals have peeled away from the aorta and valves

And the hands have relinquished such a tight grasp

And the crown, though still there, is no longer armor, just glory.

Betray the ones 

Who love you the most. 

Never let them know 

You’re too broken to let go. 

Because if they get too close, you’ll crush their dreams-- 

--Break their reality. 

Because, you see, 

If they get too close 

They will see; 

You are 

truly not 

The girl 

They always 

Knew you 

To be.

On this ridge of blue, purple, and haze,

Stands us,

Hand in hand.

The rolling plants of green beneath our feet,

Clouds of rain,

Birds of song,

Air of pine and dirt.

There is no place better,

On this earth.

On this ridge—

As wild as love,

In the land for lovers—

We plant our two feet.

On this ridge of blue, we both know

This is the only place where you could be you,

And I could be me.

drinking bleach would cleanse my soul.

it is not a fact or a truth,

but it is still a thought that lingers.

it would not taste good,

and i’d probably spit it out,

so only half of my sins would be omitted.

one cup equals one day.

two equals four.

i’d like to think a whole gallon is a year.

others say it’s just a teaspoon

or a tablespoon if you’re desperate.

they must be wrong.

how much would it take to cleanse?

how much would it take to kill?

which question is more important?

drinking bleach would kill my soul.

it is a fact and a truth,

and yet it is still a thought that lingers.

Come my mistress and sit upon my bed, 

Where silk sheets provide such comfort and love,  

And a pillow for you to rest your head,  

For all of your worries shall float above. 

With a slight brush of a touch to my hand 

I look at you and become highly strung. 

Intense palpitations, feelings unplanned, 

For no greater love could have ever sprung.  

Together we lay, our bodies affix, 

Passionately kissing, gasping for air, 

Testing out the waters with some new tricks, 

Commencing a sensual love affair.  

Cautiously committing myself to you, 

To a love I never want to undo. 

It started with a question on Romance 

The intellectual movement of course. 

But intellect turned into more, 

It became a question of morals. 

Evolutionary morals.

Charles Darwin.  

You know, On the Origin of Species?

Finches. 

Finches must be able to fly 

In order for migration, 

But just like this conversation, 

The finches flew south for the winter. 

Those finches eventually flew back, 

But they wanted nothing to do with winter,

So they gave their Ode to the West Wind, 

And asked a question of Reason.  

This philosophical movement 

Talks about love as an overpowering force, 

But in A World Made By Atoms, 

There’s finally a place where they fit together.

To suffer under the truth or prosper under a lie?

That is the question that plagues your mind as you stare at her.

Can this be saved? Should it?

Memories flood the mind's eye.

Memories of laughter, passion, bliss.

The long drives that were never long enough.

The hug that you wish lasted just one second more.

The eternal smile that was to never fade away.

The kiss that wasn’t supposed to be the last. 

Like flowers in the wind, the truth carries her away.

You stand there alone in your sorrow.

The righteous man that has lost that was everything in his world.

The Black Dog appears by your side.

Neon eyes gazing past your eyes as it corrupts your soul.

As quickly as it appears, truth whisks it away.

Tears fall down your face as truth extends its hand.

You grab a hold, ready to have it guide you once again.

Committing thoughts to paper

Those that know us said

Was a gift we had in common

Along with our pacific eyes

Tenacity, optimism, and a penchant for reflection

Open hearts in a parasitic home

So my soul and body fracture

From the gravity of his abandonment

The personally induced pressure

And self-pitying sadness

Of writing his goodbye

A film of desperation slicks my pallid skin

The smear of panic streaks my soiled hair

Desolation envelops my vacant eyes

And despite the kin surrounding

Mine is an exclusive isolation

The words that tend to come resist

I sit in silent solitude, searching hallowed recollections

Memories I’ll divide and ration

To those who loved him most

Tears barge in, but so do words

The most doleful gift I ever gave

An agonizing finality

For my stability in the chaos

My sunshine in the storm

Preceding the reading,

She asks for my recital

Around her white oak table

Reminders of birthdays and Thanksgivings

Our extended family convenes

Knowing not of the everlasting secret

Between she and me

Our buttoned-up dissension

She hears my words, but they’re really listening

By the final turn of phrase

Their eyes and noses run

Grief washes them over

Unbeknownst to those

Who think they know us well

But clear as day to my keen eye

She has a face of stone

Written off as widow’s gloom

Auntie says I’m talented

Uncle says its art

She looks at me, though not really

Over my shoulder, perhaps

And declares

Expectedly, but also not

“Your brother picked the perfect song.”

I remember

Writing paragraphs and pages

Begging you to love me

To forgive me

Say “I’m sorry”

I’m so sorry

For something I didn’t even do

It was you who said the mean words

Bared your teeth just like an animal

You’d lose control

And I was just a child

Wishing for a mother’s touch

A mother’s love

But I got a cold stare

Until

You said I’m sorry with a sweater

A few years later it’s the same game

I make you mad, we both scream

It’s a pissing match to see

How long we’ll let this tension last

It’s a chess game

And you play the mean queen

And I am just a weak pawn

Moving to the side

With a desperate need, I plead

Please

We need to move on

And end this charade

I never wanted to play a game, anyway

But you rule with an iron fist

And acid on your tongue

I pray you’ll change and say those words

Because this hurts

But no

You say I’m sorry with a sweater

And now I’m grown and on my own

But it hasn’t changed

This game we play

I’ve worked on me in therapy

With serotonin and new skills

I’m gaining insight and patience

And when you get mad, I’m anxious

But I stay calm and bite my tongue

I feel your words, the lashing

The familiar pain

The strain on our relationship

I nod my head and find the power in my peace

As you turn and leave

Then I wait

Though I know what’s coming next

And it isn’t what I hope

I hope for introspection

A change

A connection

Though I know you’re sixty-seven

And a mule can’t change its height

A few days pass

And then I’m right

A delivery at my door

You said I’m sorry with a sweater

And I’ve got the wardrobe of a goddess

The closet of a queen

But does it really matter

When this is our reality

And my insides are so empty

I watch with careful wonder

Other women with their mothers

Sometimes my heart aches

And my hands shake

I wish for warmth and comfort

So I button up my sweater.

The workday was over.

We drifted down Route 11 past Piggy's bar

and took that familiar right turn.

Following the road which escapes memory,

then turning right once more onto Fegan.

You found our apartment after growing

discontent with my old basement.

In truth, that old basement

is where we abandoned our passion,

like the cigarette butt flipped out the window of the moving car.

We arrived home, but the police told us we couldn't enter.

We parked in the gravel drive on the other side

and walked through dew-drenched grass.

Flickering blue lit our path.

We could see where the stray bullet

cracked the window to our neighbor's place.

The boy had died right there; I never knew his face.

A small cross was laid near the entrance to the lot.

Walking the dog, I would often come by the fallen symbol

and stand it upright once more.

All the while pondering how life seemed such a chore.

Soft things floating in my dreams,

My heart still bursting at the seams.

The sun sits halfway down the sky.

Why was it so hard to look you in the eye?

Afraid of what you may see,

Lurking deep inside of me.

I scooped you up and held you in my arms,

Perhaps believing I possessed some charm.

That river inlet so beautiful and clean,

The water glistening against our skin, a kind of sheen.

The roar of crashing water lay ahead,

Creating a sense of comfort like my bed.

A rope hangs from a tree,

And the water is growing cold as can be.

We feel the power of the waterfall,

A vivid memory brought to life as I recall.

We duck our heads beneath the overhanging rock.

Now it is just us, alone against the clock.

I felt the pressure of the moment ease,

But will I ever be able to make peace?

With all the things I wish I could have said.

Of course, it drives me mad within my head!

The chance to kiss you there beneath the sound and fury of water,

It was fear who told me not to bother.

But this moment with you still remains,

I try to look back fondly and not complain.

A friendship that will forever last,

Even though it’s true I am an ass.

We have not talked in several hundred years,

A fact that always brings me to tears.

I will always love you from afar,

Kind of like the way I watch the stars.

Although so far away they shed their light,

Breaking up the darkness, oh so bright.

We sat alone; it was just us two.

I reached for your foot; it was so smooth.

My fingers danced along your wrinkled sole,

A playful touch which didn’t have a goal.

You cut this moment short with quick rebuke,

I hoped my touch wouldn’t make you want to puke.

How could I ever hope to hide my love?

It seems that I will always place you above

The flowers, sunset, ocean, and the stars.

It’s true that you have left a scar.

Coffee in the backyard of my parent’s place.

Your presence turned that lawn into a sacred space.

We passed that glass back and forth,

A kind of ritual of sorts.

Coughing out and laughing to the rising sun.

I surely could have prevented being shunned.

You’ve grown into a mother and a wife.

You’ll always be the most beautiful woman in my life.

One step here, up through your fingertips.

Now to the left: one, two, three.

I float across the stage in my shoes,

As if they are an extension of my passion.

The costume I have ached to wear since I was a child,

finally draped around my torso and hips,

sparkling in the bright stage lights.

Take a breath, circle round, create the eclipse,

parade in the glee of the chorus.

The years of devotion and pain lead me,

A few quick steps here, now head up,

feel the music swell and build in your heart.

This is my finale, the eternal battle,

The crown of my ballet career.

Feel the music guide you along the clefs and staffs, 

Peaking with the last section, then up into the pose.

The last note reverberates through the hall,

Petering out like a dying dream.

I blink a tear away as my body relaxes from the final position,

stepping out to take my new role among those who have come before me:

The audience.

There was once an octopus with about too many tentacles.

As you can imagine, this caused quite a spectacle. 

He was both laughed at and feared.

In his mind, the faces people made at him had been seared. 

To hide, he traveled a league under the sea, then another, then another

Until the deep, and the dark, and the cold did nothing but smother. 

It was here, he realized he did not desire solitude.

He just wanted everyone to not be so rude. 

He loved where the ocean’s blue

Married the sky’s similar hue. 

Where all the birds circled above

And where he found snails and slugs which he did love. 

Nothing should keep him from where he loved to be,

Trapped in the darkest corners of the sea. 

For this, he traveled back, league after league

Even though it caused him great fatigue. 

At last, he reached the sea’s uppermost level

And in the sun and the sounds, he did revel. 

Then he heard it- a laugh, a jeer, a snide

That made the octopus want to go back down to the dark sea and hide.

But he didn’t really want to do that,

Just knew that would be easier in fact. 

He tried his hardest and he put one foot in front of another, and another, and another, and another. 

Which made him feel the current of the sea in all its wonder.

“What a wonder it is to be me.”

When she was a woman young

She had about two lungs.

So when the villagers called her a witch

She shouted back, “Fuck off, bitch.”

Always with her full chest

She would challenge their ignorant jests

And each time their metal failed her tests. 

From this, her own, her power

She moved by only her own hour.

From forest to glen

Where she could freely move her pen

Without the passerby and their evil eyes

Who always went and sprouted lies. 

It was in this glen,

Where much of her time she would spend,

Emerged from the vast scenery,

As if undone from the greenery,

Sprang a fawn with a coat of starlight.

With desire, the woman’s eyes burned bright. 

All the riches and all the gold

Could not have held her soul in such a hold. 

For when the fawn moved, it twinkled

And made all else seem fickle. 

So the woman turned her pen to a sword

And forgot the powers of even the smallest words.

She placed the blade to the neck of the fawn,

Ready to cut it as red as the dawn. 

But before she did it, their eyes met. 

A wellspring of power the little thing kept, 

Some of which it was willing to spare.

But the woman did not want to share. 

So she cut, cut, cut it up

Bathing herself in its stomach muck. 

From the innocent spilled it’s blood

Onto the ground’s fertile mud.

All the power the woman could then feel

Was almost too good to be real. 

But every star has it’s night

And a black buck of such came for his fallen light. 

By the time he arrived,

The woman was calling what was stolen, “Mine.”

Though the buck knew the night couldn’t be undone

He pointed his antler, his vengeance, at her lung. 

The horns, as big as branches, landed true

And with a dying breath the woman managed, “Fuck you.”

But though the stolen power had become sour,

It was not her dying hour.

The holes in her lungs

Made it so she could have none 

Of the sweet and fulfilling air

Which made her life fair. 

This was her punishment.

From Hell it had been sent.

For power is shared, not taken

And all who think otherwise are gravely mistaken. 

The mountains are blue

Because they miss you. 

They'll blush green

When you play in their crystal streams.

Birds will sing over the hum of bees

And light will dapple through the trees.

But after many moons and many hours

Fall will regain her ancient powers.

Ever so changing, the mountains will pale brown 

Once the last Summer sun and all the leaves fall down.

There in the deep umber,

Where the bears take their Winter slumber,

New life and warmer nights await

For the sun to set off on his celestial fate.

When the Spring dawn

Finally awakens on a new fawn

Will the mountains again be blue

All because they miss you.

As the owl

Looked up with his scowl,

He saw the moon 

And asked, “Why don’t you

Look at me with some fright?

Because I can be quite the sight

When I’m seen hunting in the night.

All the mice and fish

Who hide in the twilight mists

And even some of all the bugs

Never see past my ugly mug.

Every single hare

Takes off from quite the scare

And even in your light that’s fair

My face is still too much to bare.”

As the lonely owl let out a screech

He felt he could almost reach

The fair face of the moon.

“When I extend my wing to you

It feels like we’ll be together soon.”

Staring into a wide sky

He felt his cheeks turn crimson when he said, “Hi.”

As every night of fair weather

Tied the two of them by a tether

And they got to know

One another’s soul.

It was as if they had been made from the same mold.

Once their love had grown strong, 

The owl knew he could not have been wrong.

He reached his wings and took flight,

In a wide and bright night.

To say I love you to the moon.

Stop, look around at the clouds rising.

Look around at the darkness beginning to surround you.

It entraps you.

You can hear the voices speaking.

Laughing.

You yell at them to stop, to for once be quiet.

Shouting, pleading for someone, anyone

to help.

You begin to fill up with panic.

All you’re able to make out is darkness.

You cave further into the hole of desperation you’ve dug into.

The voices roar louder and begin to yell at you.

Taunting you, screaming you’re not enough, that you’ll never amount to anything.

They tell you to do things you don’t want to.

All you can tell yourself is not to, to be rational, to think things through.

You jolt back into the reality you were in before.

Staring at yourself through the mirrored reflection on your spoon,

the tears rolling down your cheeks, the flushed look stretched upon your face.

These thoughts,

they come out of nowhere.

Everything you’ve heard or seen

will be etched in the back of your head,

to live with it for the rest of your days.

Every panic filled moment, every bad memory, all to yourself.

Why? 

Because you can’t call out for help in the darkness that surrounds you.

The endless darkness that entraps you.