fear

you shook me once.
i was born a leaf
i became a twig
i am a tree,
rooted yet free.

you chased me once.
i started to slow
i became faster
i am the wind,
flying and free.

you caged me once.
i started to cry
i began to scream
i am singing,
unlocked and free.

you mesmerized me once.
i was a pendulum
i became a sundial
i am a mirror,
gazing and free.

you let me go.
i was an egg
i became feathers
i am a dove,
i will not flee.
i am free.

returning to dream of understanding only to forget

it is my time to return to the mountains.
those winding, unguarded paths sing
like twisted angels or guarded sirens
pulling me back with a tug to my hair
a yank to my soul, back into the mountains.

it is my time to dream of the vineyards.
those lush, trailing fingers curl
like pompous snakes or an infant's tendril
tempting my drying tongue with wine on
lips to the glass and vine, i dream of vineyards.

it is my time to understand the fields.
those undulating, tawny grasses laze
like flossy, yawny lion tails
bedding my bones down to rest a while
on a pillow of breath, i understand the fields.

it is my time to forget the shoreline.
those lapping, crystalline waves dance
like clapping children or drunken sailors
waving farewell to my weak blue eyes and
the last of my tears on the shoreline.

enchantment. relocation.

what is magic, if not fleeting?
when the twirling slows
when the twinkling stars set
when the last tide rolls
i am left in the broken silence
with my flushed heart still beating.

you can not know a breaking soul
until you feel the loss of being whole
as the waves slip from your fingers
as the north star pops and fizzles away
as fairy dust becomes just pebbled sand...
i am a haunted island in this sea

lift me up and toss me away
i'll land here again to nestle
deep within the forest and the bay
when my clock stops counting
when my adventures start waning
when the snow surrenders to melting

this magic is fleeting
my soul is breaking
lift me up and toss me away

into the fox den

hurry scurry
turvey topsy
Peter the furry
Flopsy, Mopsy-
and what of Cottontail?
sneaking, peeking
magic seeking
speaking namby pamby
and so curious of the den?
it killed the cat
(the fox that is)
and the rabbit is next-
a foxy grin greets
her sallying prey
as he dilly-dallies...
when he prays
she steals his
breath, tongue
but gives them back,
(kisses on his back)
to ensure he sallies back
lippity-lippity
hurrying scurrying
dilly dallying
sneaking, peeking
hot to (fox) trot
lickity- split
right into the den
again, again
(unless Peter tricks her first)

"Peter never stopped running or looked behind him till he got home to the big fir tree." ~1983

leo the lion

that northern sun was hot today
(sweltering, hazy)
its elusive face hung over the bay
behind a curious summer cloud
(peeking, winking)
through its curious summer shroud.
i didn't drink too much today
(sipping,lying)
i kept those chilled boys at bay
my quiet pen stopped lips too loud
(chattering, kissing)
i scribbled and sang and swam and vowed.
a lazy lion loped along today
(pawing, yawning)
to my clever camp along the bay
napped in my sun though he was not allowed
(tip-toeing, hushing)
in my absence he was anything but proud.

howling in the buzz of storytime lamplight

this is the fork where we break.
i broke away in a reflection
of the tipping point
but that was four miles ago
in the place you grew up with
a bendy straw in life elixer
bends in a road away from home.
you will touch my small fingers
and i will sprinkle your cheek.
cupped hands and downturned lips
meet the sun's sword unsheathing
on the curve of the our earth.
call it a marriage if you must-
it all cuts and sets in time.
what is this we call our time,
when yours has become mine?
when we've run our course
it was beautiful, of course
(see we are blind, see how we run)
now we finally see it all,
a clarity through your howling.
i'm moving up to the mountain
straw basket on hips, in tow
while you're growing tomatoes
you're grown up and reflecting
starlight onto my mountainside.
the frostkiss burns your harvest
this year earlier than ever
in the valley where your garden
grew with your flourishing manhood
in the shadow of my mountain home.

sticky countertops

dear honesty,
i've hidden you in the cupboard. in the back next to my sugarless cereals, as neither of you have proven to be very sweet. what's left in the kitchen? sticky countertops and stained wine glasses from two weeks ago. when a stranger's strong hands collide with the whole lot of my blonde curls, i'm closing my eyes to forget you. when a playmate's phone calls are silenced with my dirty fingers, i'm opening my eyes to check the time and you are still in the cupboard. four o'clock is a filthy time of morning and then, i am mourning you. i am hoping for breakfast but your face peeks out from behind the boxes and i'd rather starve. i'd rather lay in bed.

of leaving and small magic

in the woods and by the shore i stumbled upon it. that's what we all seek in places- that small magic. to feel something apart from cars and grocery stores. in a field surrounded by puffy dandelions, we are all clinging. about to take flight into that northerly breeze. we can feel the magic, or begin to feel like we know something of it. from mountains to plains to the lake i wandered here and learned of it, though it was small. now i can conjure it when the sun slants this way and the dandelions sway. i can carry it in this small pouch at my hip. i can carry lilacs and paper scraps to help keep it alive. i will beckon to it at the perfect time. here, off of lonely 13 and 2, flapping pigeons and a splintered bench and sweeping sunlight hint at it.

the fat robins remind me that the snow is at bay and the bay reminds me of the day i arrived: small and afraid of the isolation. i skated the icy highways while he was away. while i was left here to make my own heat. in a kitchen too small for my mixer. in a town just vast enough for my footprints. to make it my own was my journey.i wandered to the market for strawberries and to the bench by the bay for sunsets.sunsets and ice roads in turn.

in the light of a sunday June glow i have found my tears. it is magic after all. what canvased my heart is beginning to tear and the skin underneath the artwork is smooth and plain. the indians and ice and insensitivities somehow served me well. housewives pot marigolds and herbs tonight, rushing slightly to keep up with the sinking sun. watching me with my windy hair and concealed stories, they glance my way here and there. their children will dance along with me down the sidewalk. curious as to why i am the same age as their potting mothers, yet spinning to their tune. it is safe here and my path is worn. fate is pushing me to a wider road. sidewalk chalk and spray paint where the grass pushes it's way through the concrete. soon all will be strangers to my feet.

to stay is to plateau. to leave is to grow. i teeter, playing this game, rolling dice of my own desires. swinging madly back and forth in the quiet of June.the jungle is only a playground game for me here and so now i spin atop the merry-go-round and hope to be propelled to greener lawns. it is my turn to leave. i can tell you something of leaving and the nervous un-choices..what stories are they? if not fairytales, they are, at least, my own.

this is not about you

this story is not about you.
it is quiet and smooth,
like the curve of a shoulder blade.
the painted words
seep deeper into the pavement
like the last moments
of waking or déjà vu
but they are not about you.
i came home
with mint and hot words
on my breath,
to a watering can and a pinecone.
i was not alone.
you're moving back again,
to the seamstress' bench.
you're a hanging button
on a coat sleeve.
i'm dipping into ponds
green like clover in springtime.
artesian kisses
on the brim of the pipe.
this is my signal to leave
and this is not about you.

on the corner of 3rd and st. claire

im not sure who i'll be when the lake winds settle down again. spring sunsets suit me well for now and lake sounds are my only company. i come to this bench every night. in the shadow of our fathers, we are paralyzed and i hear the frog and duck songs. my wings carry me above the clouds and tidal waves. i don't know when i shed those feathers. i was twelve and eager to be older when i saw your first glances. i plucked a few leaves of lamb's ear and let the softness against my cheek cradle me in my fear. i'm near a northern pier and somehow when the waves crash around me i am not afraid. when i lost that small child i was only afraid in the face of commitment and mother's days are hazy now. mothers eclipse fathers in the brightness of sacrifice so i wonder how i would have fared that storm, how i could have stayed afloat. you are a ghost today, as she is and so is he. i drowned each of you while i was braving the waves. maybe you will drown me while you swim in the sheets of another. maybe i will lose my lifesaver. you were here once when the skies were grey and frozen, when we were flurries.i should have prevented that blizzard. caught up on the trail that is 3rd and st. claire i am warm and my toes are safe but i am no saint. i take muffins and tea to the dying couple on 3rd and alley and feel as saintly as i ever will. brain infections and cancers steal their lives and they will be swept away on the northern wind soon while their ashes crash along the shore of the bay. i would bake you pastries if you were well enough to visit my kitchen in your moments of sobriety. but again, it seems i only clap floured hands for the ill. i will clap for your magnum opus. serve your drinks and i will serve my purposes. it will serve us well. maybe i will find you on the corner of 3rd and st. claire in the gentle heat of a distant summer, in the distant heat of our healed hearts.

welcome to waking, earthling

it's a little like falling.
off of a cliff, not out of bed.
heartbeats slow to a line
sons are bleeding,
weeping over their mothers
sheets to bones tomorrow
it's time for dinner.
salted waters sweat
in holes and currents
catheters funnel blood
from vessels to ships together
cracking life from scales
in the wake of dinner.
matadors thrust swords
ribbons to ribs to shreds
160 degrees of comfort.
Garden fingers pull roots
seedling hearts of daughters,
mother's gather dinner.
pastures nod to sunset
calves call again
a splatter in the pan
eyes roll back to head
black to white to red
going home for dinner.
they fall from cliff and bed.


* also, i have just made a short video from this poem. if you would like to watch it: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nVjeXXlk5bk

razor shoes

for his mother

a run through the dew
misted breath
sopping shoes

mornings are razors
taking breath
stealing shoes

it's too early for wine
and the clock ticks
to the beat of my shoes

dirt to shoulder to horizon

A companion:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6Dwsima21JY&feature=related
Dear Trail,
I wish that you did not terrify me. Though you would not know it by the smooth assurance in my blue eyes, you swell my stomach with aching fear. The path behind me has been demolished and so my trek must be in forward motion. A lonely slow motion. From your head, the cement seeped up and settled hard into my running shoes, laced with anxiety. How far have I come? The meager calculation is sad. How far to go? The vastness of that number is daunting. I can not be sure that my weak breath will float me the distance. Will my mind be able to shed these heavy, cemented doubts (and shoes)? You refuse to carry me.

In bedtime stories I have heard of your end. Velvet moss and gentle leaves. For fleeting, enlightened (or light-headed) moments, drifting to sleep or panting hard, I have seen it clearly and felt that I could be close. In my dreams I am a fox and I elude you and my toes soften and pad underneath my soul- the downy fur becomes real and i step and leap and trot and weave and dance. To your right and left. And your miles are only a game.

Clear-headed or in waking, I am slow and careful. Your curves and slopes are ominous to me and for now, I let my tears splatter on your face. One enchanted evening I will defy your taunting gravel and concrete and sand and dirt while kicking my shoes to your shoulder. I will spy the red sun on your horizon and it will become my home.

fox in the pantry

when i left you
i left my breath
inside my water glass
i left my arms outside in the snow
where did you go?
i cried behind a tree, chased a mouse
while spring bloomed around me
(you're all around me)
cool rain falls,turns my nose blue
i'll turn around for you
when the galaxy strikes midnight
when spinning away isn't right
when i leave
burnt leaves on cement
to taste snowfall gritty and alone.
a scarlet blur in a gilded field-
i'm a fox in the pantry
breaking up the dishes
should i even love at all?
the waters bleed to skies and melt away
in your hands (sand in your eyes)
i've never breathed, melted or had clue.
strike a match.
i could turn around for you.

Calvino's Wave

waves remain separate
for only so long
whitecaps crash apart
for mere seconds
rolling in as millions
in the black of my eye
so quickly a flash
they crash as one
onto the line of sand
commingled and salty
they become me
they become you

fleeing and receding
fleeting and misleading
the new wave
hikes her skirt
and rushes back to the moon

what is a wave?
is it ever more than Id?
fated to remain
countless, swirling parts,
she is never whole
in the wild peaks roll
part by part
in the final seconds
she succumbs to the sand,
and becomes One again
waving from the open water
she rushes back to the moon

you're alive. happy birthday.

Dear Daughter,
Happy Birthday.

I do not know who you are or what you have become. I don't know how old you are. Today, you do not exist. In fact, perhaps I should have said "Dear Son." Though, I have a sense that regardless of your existence status, you are a daughter. If I am ever destined to be a mother, I feel as though it will be to a daughter. Whoever you are, I am sure I love you.

Tonight I found myself down by the lake at sunset, eating pretzels alone in the sand. I talked with your grandfather because it was his second non-consecutive set of fifteen years of marriage to his second wife who is not my mother. Love is complicated and I have just wrapped up my first marriage, only three years deep. Relatively unscathed. Sure, I have told you about him by now.

I walked home with my groceries and pretzles and nearly lost my sauce in a wicked splatter on the sidewalk. Tomato sauce and wine were both fine. I live in a small town. Please take a kitchen knife to my right eye if you were A. Born in this town or B. I am still living here or C. Have a go at my left eye as well if both A & B are true.

I am positive that you are beautiful. I have popped plan B's like PEZ. I have laughed in the face of the idea of you. I have prayed that God would assign you to another mother. So, I suspect that if you've made it here, I was desperate for you. If you are reading this, I am happy that I did not miss out on you. I also hope that I don't have stretch marks. Maybe you're from Malawi or Guatemala. Maybe you are a son.

Where ever you came from, you're the song on my lips. The stripes on my Adidas. The missing rhyme in my sonnet.

Chapter- "Manufactured Tails"

He stayed up late into the frosted night, basking in the strange blue glow of his father's computer. He shone in the window, reflecting into the woods. The night noises of the wild valley were muffled. But he knew and felt the reverberations of the wolves' hymn. He used to know the forest well. He sank, foreign in the blue glow of technology. He leaned back further and allowed himself to break. With eyes like icy Norwegian ponds, he wept and stared bitterly at the tragic screen.

He resented the injustices that had clear-cut the wilderness of his once untamed heart. He felt weak in the aftermath of my destruction.

Futilely, he attempted to click the keys. The words would have lept out of his soul and into the realm of thought had he thought to hold a pencil instead...
Had he inhaled the grainy air of an open field...
Had he drenched himself in the damp, misty air of a waterfall...
Had he felt the itch of the hay bales in his grandfather's barn...
Had he heard the quiet chirp of peepers in a country summer...
Had he been enchanted by the glow of fireflies behind his father's shed...
Had he drowned in the mooing of the cows in the valley at dusk...
Had he been himself. The luminous boy from the wooded coulee.

But he had murdered those memories and he could not find a pencil. So he typed. A Manufactured and mechanical letter. The story of how I left him. A defeated tale of a boy who had lost his fresh air and his purpose- a defeated man in the back pew of the wooden Lutheran church. In shadow of his elderly relatives' successes. A man who drove his mother's station wagon to the nearest town to substitute teach and drop a letter to me at the post office. That was the only letter he ever wrote to me and so I wanted a letter from someone else.

Even when, during our third year of marriage, when he had flown away for the second time into the Norwegian mountains to live in a yurt and eat kale, he sent me no letters.

He missed our cat. In the absence of his near-child and his sought- after children, having the fluffy Fitzgerald was all he knew of fatherhood and so he routinely sent along shiny balls with bells inside and catnip to him in the mail. I felt an awkward jealously, so I proceeded to shop online and send expensive things to myself in the mail. I braided my hair and brushed Fitzgerald's tail.

Flinty Eulogy

yesterday in globed glasses
pouring, drinking
skip the pouring
lovely brims, wine never reaches
lips hug rims
sorrow in globed glasses
(maybe i will die alone)

apologies typed in letters
sinking, mourning
sleep on an inky morning
lonely hearts, never filled to the brim
hands hold pens,
the finality of typed letters
(surely i will die alone)

the middle labels me in the sky

Brothers. Fathers. Uncles. Husbands. Boyfriends. Lovers. One-nighters. Friends. Grandfathers. Ex-husbands. Ex-boyfriends.

(somewhere in the middle)

Letters. Phone calls. Emails. Texts. Visits. Drives. Vacations. Plane rides. Texts. Texts. Texts.

(cannot find a label)

tears. laughter. hugs. punches. kisses. sex. war. peace.

(me)

Shallow. Deep. Water. Blood.

(blue skies)

Chapter- "Pit Stops"

Stop 5: Bar Stools & the White Haze

He got a whiskey. I got a beer. Then I got my period. It was just barely 11am and we were 75 miles from anywhere that would even have a gas station. But, “luckily” for us, we were flying along highway 2, in the middle of the woods and happened to see what may have at one point in time resembled a bar. I pulled over in the snowy gravel. Upon closer inspection, we decided that yes, it was in fact a bar, and yes, it was in fact open. He had to pee and I was bitchy and bloaty, so we braved it.

His whiskey neat was not neat and my beer was not cold. It was the price we had to pay for not relieving ourselves before we left, or for drinking too much coffee. Either way, we were choking down gross drinks at 11am in the middle of Shitville. To add insult to injury, the bartender (who we decided was probably a woman) kept staring at me and the couple on the other end of the bar was blabbering incessantly about their diabetic dog. I decided that it was no wonder why these people are willingly at a bar at this hour. I accidentally might have given them one of my trademark bitch glances that insinuated something like “Just put that fucking dog out of its misery.” I needed some Advil. But, my snotty sarcasm is rarely the side effect of cramps. A pill could never fix my attitude. My companion gave me a small smile that said just that. He touched my knee and kissed my cheek. He loved me.

We finished our drinks, because Midwesterners always finish their drinks. Even if they are not very good.

I wasn't able to define my feelings on this journey. I was taking him to the airport again. Part of my soul was feeling an elated sense of relief and the other part was a teary, female mess. I tried to blame the latter on my monthly hormonal charade. But, I knew it wasn't the reason, and that led me to feel even more confused. And, subsequently,pissy. He just stared at me as I drove, eyes sparkling. I looked at the road.

I drove. I was just a little lightheaded from the late-morning dosage of pain reliever and beer. I imagined what it would be like when I would return to my apartment without him. I would smile. I would light a few candles. Pour a glass of wine. Revel in the orgasmic solitude. The lack of commitment. The lack of dinner. The lack of companionship. I would lay in the cold,barren sheets. I would realize that I had done it again, and I would let my tears soak into my skin, let them in deeper than I would ever let anyone.

I swerved to miss a lone doe and snapped back into the essence of the car and our trip and the story he was telling me about someone he knew in Los Angeles. I loved to hear his voice. But, my mind was slipping back into the white haze of letting go. I held back my tears, but I knew he could see them dancing near my eyelashes. He had always loved my long eyelashes.

Stop 1: Machine Guns In the Dark
The snowfall was torrential. I was used to these sorts of Northern blizzards. The long, frozen treks through the woods. Coasting along one of only two roads that led to my home. The home I had not wanted or asked for. But, I had come to care for it and so had adopted it. For a time.

The yellow lines of the highway had long since been buried under the packed, white precipitation. It was a pitch black night and I could see the ominous, glowing saucers of animal eyes on either side of the disappearing path. I pretended that I was playing a video game- lighting a cigarette and blasting the panicked, electronic beats of Crystal Castles. I would dodge the rabid zombie- deer and slip and swerve on the haunted ice road. It would be okay. I would make it home to my hot tea and fireplace and Fitzgerald,my own wild beast.

It was the first of many times that I would bring this Lost Boy into my Lost World. Into the woods, into the snow, into my bed, into my organized mess of an existence. The night was cold and dark and exciting and secretive. We had fled the city like two misunderstood refugees. Away from our families and churches and highschool crushes and chain stores and dangerous parties and street signs and engagement rings and missed opportunities- away from our previously known realities. And all we could see around us was white encased in black.

We saw them like two pillars of hope in the distance. Faint globes, but growing more yellow and warm with each spin of the tires. Far north, near the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, there was a haven in the storm. Though time and distance had swirled away from me in the snowflakes,I realized where we finally were. It was the legendary mafia hide-away, turned crime scene of decades passed. Well, if you want to put it glamorously, that's what it was. It had become a tourist attraction for elderly people who genuinely remembered the name of Johnny Dillinger- and not the imposter Johnny from the movies. But, it was open, albeit empty aside from a few dedicated employees, and we were in need of a place to stop and hide from the raging blizzard. And we needed a drink. Pronto.

Ours was the only vehicle to be seen. We stood in the parking lot, near the edge of the woods. In the light of the lamps and the neon beer signs, he held me close. The snow and wind flew around us, but he kept me in the lining of his coat and I felt small and safe. Before I realized that the cold had grabbed me again, he had taken off. He ran quickly and madly into the woods. I could hear his laugh, and I knew that he could hear mine echoing back. We chased eachother with invisible machine guns until we were snow-soaked and frozen and another inch of snow covered the car.

We walked in through the large, wooden doors, wet and rosy-cheeked. In the reflection of pieced- together shattered glass, we realized how young we looked. We made our way to the bar and began to drink in that romantic room and gazed with glazed eyes at the preserved bullet holes in the walls, and Johhny Depp t-shirts. We smiled in the glow of the roaring fire as we roared with laughter.

Chapter- "thaw"

Finally, the breeze was mild. Finally, the sun clung to the skyline for just twelve more minutes than it had the week before. Finally, I could see something resembling grass underneath the lakes of snowmelt in the sideyard. I had never truly experienced the beauty of springtime before 6pm that February evening. Thirty years along a particularly icy road, and there I was all of a sudden, crying and thawing out in the soupy, littered alley.

I breathed the newborn spring air so deeply that I was nearly lightheaded. I saw the scattered garbage. I heard the neighbor's baby crying and the scratch of a stray dog's nails on some leftover ice. The feeling wrapped me up so suddenly, it was nearly startling-- it was the temperature and the weight of the atmosphere. It was warmth. I realized it then...

I had survived. The bitter bite of Northern air. The bitter words and bitter alcohol that dripped from my leaky faucet of a tongue all winter. Bitter goodbyes and uncontrolled tears. My unruly, bitter disposition. All that bitterness melted away down into the alleyway potholes and murky puddles. It smelled like rain and I wavered knowing that I had conquered the unlivable winter and that I had made him leave for the last time. I was alone, but I was alive.

I knew that I would never let him return to these sidewalks or to his snowy pulpit to lecture me. My confusion and bitterness were finally slipping away with the winter sludge and I was emerging into the shape of someone else altogether. Someone much more beautiful. Though he had made it back once more to his old doorway via the isolated route on Highway 2 in his uncle’s rusty station wagon, it would be the last time. Despite his pleading and sobbing and promises to reform, I stood like a small statue beneath him, unwavering and quiet. He saw a picture of me kissing the blue-gloved boy and promised me that I would regret it. He promised me that I would be lost without him and I would be ruined if I kept kissing that blue-gloved boy. I could only close my eyes and wait for it to pass and wonder if God agreed with what my husband was saying. I wondered why I felt so peaceful amid the shattered ruins of my marriage. Finally, he sank back into that station wagon and retraced his tracks on Highway 2 and I thanked God (even if he did agree with my husband). I sniffled just once and peeked through the curtains and watched him go and then found myself happily broken in the littered alley. My thaw was beginning and I could feel a new surge of hot blood pumping lightly under my delicate skin.

I stared above at the sky. A transparent moon and companion star were suspended in the fusion of sunset’s crimson and night’s cobalt. I was teetering on the brink of dusk and nighttime, towing the line of adventure and settling. I was exploding and sleeping. My pooling blue eyes blinked in time to the drip of the icicles, smearing the concepts of hope and reality as tears washed the palms of my hands. Cracked wide open and warm. What would I do now?

I walked. When it was always my impulse to run, I decided then to walk. In the last moments of daylight, swept by the temperate air, I walked. I knew that I was finally strong enough to slow down. An elderly Indian woman was walking with a cane, evading puddles as she swayed under the weight of her grocery bags. She smiled knowingly at me from across the street. It was a smile that made me feel feeble and naïve. I could see in her ragged eyes that she had survived many more winters here than I ever would. Perhaps she even thrived in the winters. And there I was parading my ability to claw my way through three inconsequential seasons. But she sensed my victory and silently congratulated me. It was humbling to walk.

hopesong

It is a chilled and serene hymn that finds me laying here,
Tired and drooping like a birch branch in springtime.
I have played the day gently with steady fingertips,
the ivory and black keys of my heart roll again.
What melody echoes? Who will I play for, and when?
A composer of melancholy songs and unfinished lines,
I have come to ask of mercy from this unhinged work.
Stillness, solitude and reflection mirror in my eyes
as tears of the music passed sings to cradle my soul.
I will hum softly upon the snow to wait for the thaw
Until sorrow melts to the warming bird songs of hope.

Loves I & II

I
We met on a greening campus lawn
Just once we made love until dawn
We’ve shared a bathroom and a bed
You were in my hands but not my head
You couldn’t bear the cross you wore
On your back, that inky black sore
Scripted vows echoed in a glowing barn
Heart seams stitched with strings and yarn
I jerked us around and you hit the ground
You screamed ‘til I was nowhere to be found
Your anticipated child hung inside my gut
When it slipped away I didn’t give a fuck
Now we’re happily sad and estranged
You’re depressed and I’m deranged
Don’t believe me if I say I never loved you.
Don’t believe me if I say I’ll never forgive you.
I knew love and forgiveness on a campus lawn.

II
How’d we plunge through those icy crowds?
Painted nails, higher than painted schemes,
We rocked and puffed and hung from clouds.
Black and silver rides drove our rock star dreams
To dark alleys with darker men, we barely escaped.
Though we slept on basement couches and gutters,
Our cunning left us never slapped or raped.
We raised hell with fathers, teachers, mothers.
Do you remember the swings next door?
We flew and screamed and fell away.
Do you remember crawling on the floor?
We shifted and lied and crept away.
You found your love and I found mine
We left them both and found better ones
You live your life and I’ll live mine,
The times we’ve had will lead us to better ones.

Chapter

It's never a good sign when I wake up still spinning. When my eyelashes barely separate enough for me to see anything because my glammed- up mascara from last night is still caked on and the sparkles from my eyelids have fallen into the pooled corners of my puffy tear ducts. And, when I finally do see something, ugh. Three variously full bottles of beer on my cute bedside table, which is entirely too quaint to have un-coastered bottles of beer on it. So, that morning I rolled over, shirtless, and groaned because "I really should have just thrown up last night."

What's was an even worse sign? It was New Year's Day. Nice. Happy "Monumental Rest of My Life Day" to me. I thought, "I'll re-assign this occasion to my birthday this year." Everything seems better in July than it does in January anyhow. "But, wait, it's Thirty this year. Scratch that."

I looked around, as well as I could considering that my frizzed and nappy head was pounding. Where was he? Out for a cigarette? No, the silver case and lighter lay neatly on the desk. In the shower? There was no splattering sound of lukewarm water. I laid back down. Confused and more than likely, still drunk. I closed my once-beautifully made-up eyes and they were thankful for the dark cover. I shivered and suddenly felt as though I would die without his arms. Disgusted, I caught myself wallowing in that that mire of shitty, sappy sentimentality and nearly threw up on my pillow.

There was a faint rustling in the next room. I squirmed and attempted to peel the twisted sheets from my mess of a body. I did and then teetered noiselessly towards the next room. He was there, dressed and i could smell in the air that he had showered. His back to me, he stood over two ominous, gaping suitcases and a pile of mismatched clothes. Then, it all came back to me in a rush of tears and alcohol and wavering words. He was leaving. He turned around to tell me that I was beautiful but I was already crying and puking all over the floor. Beautiful.

~*

When I woke up I could feel that I was warm and clean. I smelled like flowery shampoo and his soft tee shirt was draped over my small frame. My eyes opened easily this time and my head felt light and clear. He sat there quietly, just looking at me with a gentle glimmer in his green eyes. He saw that I was awake, and smiled his gorgeous smile. Brushing the hair from my forehead, he kissed me the way a proud groom kisses his glowing bride- unabashed and tender. “Happy New Year, beautiful.”

I smiled without laughing, without makeup, and without reservation. I wanted to tell him that I loved him. That he had just saved me. Again. I wanted to say thank you. I wanted him to kiss me again. I wanted him to stay there on my bed forever, staring into my eyes through his comforting green halos. But I said nothing while one teardrop tore away from my brimming eyes and slipped down its salty slide to my shoulder. He kissed away the wet streak it left on my cheek and told me that he would always love me. And before I could allow another tear to escape, he did. He was suddenly through the door and I was in his powdery white tee shirt- a small, heartbroken lump of feathers on the bed.

~*

Walking past my mailbox the next morning there was a morning dove sitting on the rust of my porch railing. It only had one foot. Its balance was impeccable. It wavered just a little when I got closer to inspect its stump. “You okay buddy?” I asked. Without warning, it flew with a coo into the air. Completely gracefully. If I ever lose a foot I can only hope to move that elegantly. It had returned to the same rusty landing when I returned home later that day. This time it just tilted its head as I crept closer. I was pleased that I was allowed such proximity. Closer still. I raised my hand to do god knows what- pet it? Suddenly, its wings arched and it leaned to one side and spiraled to its death in a pile of snow. A lump of feathers in the powdery death.

2

you say that you miss me terribly, too
but you don't still sleep in that bed
like i do
you've left these warm blankets
for cool sheets
tumbling out of snow embankments
into the hot streets
heaters to fans
blue gloves to bare hands

i say i can't handle the missing
like you do
so i'm smoking again on highway 2
but wild highways don't lead to you
i'll leave snow filled boots
for small bare feet
frozen tears
for love's heat
these plummeting blue eyes
fall for poetry from the skies

Chapter

Cleaning Up the Mess: Key Lime Pie

And so I found myself yet again in the middle of my pale blue 6x6 kitchen. Elixirs poised in my hands, the full bottles twirling like loaded pistols. My compadres Jack and Jameson. Mixing bowls shining nobly and Kitchen Aid tilted back rearing like an old trusty steed, preparing for a gallop across my frozen Midwestern countertops.

I'm sure that my Dad was already drunk for the night. Granted, the time difference was on his side. Granted, it was 5:00 not just somewhere, but sixteen after five here, too. So, I cut him some slack. Hell, I would have cut him slack regardless, since I was also pleasantly buzzed. I was home from my afterwork- workout and freshly showered, with a freshly opened bottle of High Life. It had been another eventful trip to the mailbox, which is precisely why I was warming up with a beer and flipping through muffin recipes. Not because I was hungry, of course. I can never eat while my brain is gluttonously consuming the thoughts of the day or the recently opened contents of the letter from my father.

I hadn’t heard from him in a month. Not because he was a jerk, of course. He was in hiding. Again. I was his only confidant, his only daughter, his only source of sympathy. Since he had run away six months prior, I could rely only on my monthly letter. It was more than anyone else he knew received, and so I felt auspiciously smug when I easily slipped my finger through the envelope. Of course because of this, I had become the family’s crisis hotline for those concerned about his health and whereabouts. I never heard much from Wives #2 or #3, naturally. But my mother, Wife #1, did periodically slip in a sly question regarding his wellbeing into our conversations. His mother, brothers, and sister were the most relentless trivia seekers. But, I only shared selective amounts of the Dad Data which I received carefully penned in his letters. Mostly because, as was his notorious custom, he supplied me with very little actual information concerning himself. We limited our correspondence to exchanged fictional stories. I didn’t even know where he was exactly. Somewhere in Florida. I never really ventured to check the postmark. I liked it better that way. Details have always been unimportant in the face of the history and love and enjoyment of being this man’s daughter.

So, when I was finally freshened up and sipping on a beer at 5:16pm, I sat down to read the latest exquisitely told tale from the tired fingers of my Dubious Dad. I was surprised to see only one sheet of paper inside. One sheet of high quality parchment and a plane ticket.

dear distanced daughter,
I have decided that now is as good a time as any. I would like to see you. I am sorry that it has been so long. Well, if “long” is how we would like to define eight years. Incredibly long? Embarrassingly long? That’s more accurate. Also, sorry about your divorce. I have enclosed a plane ticket for you. Sorry I am such a mess. I hope that you come to Key West, regardless. I think I need you and I certainly love you.
Ps: pack your summer clothes. Do you even have summer clothes?
Dad


I set his letter on the coffee table and smiled. I glanced towards the north-facing window in my living room and looked at the wild, icy lake. I got up, pulled on my puffy coat, mukluks and wool mittens. In much the same way that I'm always looking for that handbag which will change my life, I was on nearly-as-meticulous hunt for the most idyllic set of key limes.

Therefore, that night at 7:54pm, I was abandoning muffins. “Ed Abby” had been packed and gone for days and I was left blissfully to my own devices (cabinets full of baking supplies, a stocked liquor closet, and a playlist packed with old school hip-hop and punk rock). And it seemed fitting to let the kitchen become a disaster, to let myself become a disaster. To let the flour poof like clouds of magic dust from my carefully manicured and enchanted fingertips. To abandon the Muffin, who had for so long been my Knight in Shining Batter. I no longer needed his security. I was going to attempt to face my arch nemesis: the Pie. Pie is unpredictable and elusive. The various crusts and enumerable filling options. There is no base recipe, so it is an ever-changing list of options. I would whip and stir and splatter while battling my way through the turbulent mêlée with this Key Lime Pie. It would turn out perfectly. I would drink and dance and sing while wrestling with what I would do with the invitation from my father. I prayed that this sloshy, scattered process with the alcohol and the oven would allow enough warmth into my fingers for me to begin to clean up our messes.

Chapter

Alone. The feeling is emancipating. It’s never lonely.

When the weepy August sun smeared across the red walls in my living room, I just breathed. Closed my eyes. Like a penny drop in a well- deep and hollow and beautiful, I just breathed. Somehow I could feel my way through the chaos of the inland humidity and broken manners of lewd, uneducated people. I started to untangle the wadded mass of laughter, manipulation, relaxation, frustration, great sex, awful sex, summer and winter, contentment and the stir crazy rattles- I managed to piece it all together. Just for a few fleeting , courageous moments. This clarity is what I was chasing, but it was always just inches from my trembling fingertips. But that afternoon, it was nearer than ever. I could not allow it to recede again and be swallowed by the frigid northern cavity of desperate waters. I was terrified that, even if I managed to grab it, I would ruin or misplace it.

This was why I had to break the liquor bottles into disarrayed shards on the sidewalk and head back in a blur to the house to quickly pack my bags.

When I walked back through the front door into the living room, he was standing there- fucking up the beautiful red, sundrenched portrait of solace. Ugh, I should not have disposed of all that alcohol. I contemplated heading back out and carefully licking it off of the green and clear glass. I had anticipated that he would have stayed away longer than twenty ridiculous minutes after the enormous, screaming blowout we had just endured between the red walls, hardwood floors, and jittery cats.

I had anticipated being long gone by time he returned. But, there we were. He gave me his disgusted, lip-curled sneer, and a roll of the eyes that said “You are such a lush.” I didn’t want to let him get the first word out. I knew, judging by well-known sneer and the pungent scent kaleidoscope of vodka, coconut rum, Irish whiskey, gin, raspberry brandy, Bailey’s and lemondrop schnapps and god-knows what else. So, I had to say the only thing that I knew would send him directly back through the back door and buy me another twenty minutes. “I didn’t want to have that baby, okay? Just deal with it.” As brutal and grim as it sounded slipping through my uncouth lips, I felt a surge of power going through my cheeks.

Just as I had calculated, his face paled and he traced his steps wordlessly towards the backdoor, just barely mumbling, “Bitch” under his defeated breath. Maybe I had wanted that baby. I didn’t care about it right now. He was gone and I was throwing my bag over my shoulder and heading out of the front door and kneeling on the sidewalk searching through the broken pieces for a few drops of relief.

Chapter fragment

There are no beautiful sunsets in this season of darkness and greedy chapters. The snow. It hurts the warm soul, causing it to crack and break between the lines of sanity and reason. I felt it's icy sting even more after I kicked my husband out, and sat beside myself trying to soothe it with hot tea.

I had felt it for so long. I began to feel the freezer burn in my throat again once I knew he was feeling it, too.

The week he arrived back to the Midwest he was arrested. There had been an outstanding warrant for his arrest, and they got him right way when he entered the state. After fifteen years, it seemed as though I was just here waiting for his return. Of course he sacrificed and endured arrests and the shit weather and the stains on the front of his coat to be near me. But, he didn’t know that yet- he didn’t know why he was putting up with it all. It was just too damn cold here. Very few can actually say that they enjoy the bitter cold, really. I mean, besides the massive snowmobilers and their fat wives who serve them chips and beer during football Sundays. It was not a place for either of us. But he trudged here unknowingly into my arms, into the snowbanks of this sad town. Despite the snow, stains, and sunless Sundays.

Searching for some semblance of sanity I stepped outside for a cigarette and saw the snow angel in the front yard. He stumbled to that spot in a drunken frenzy the night before. He was gorgeous and awkward in the whiteness, in the glow of the streetlight. There was something more to it and I knew what was next. And it was okay. At that moment I was not what I needed and I was not what he could endure. Not what he needed, either. And that was okay, too.

He required circled sunlight and longer days. I had felt his gravity for all of my adult years and it had gone from me but it returned all at once when I saw that snow angel laying gently on the frozen ground. I was not what he needed- not now. I knew it and said it again and again in my mind. All at once he was just barely more than a blurred photograph on what used to be my husband's bedside table. It’s not always what he would be. He would again be a warm and tangible tee shirt against my bare back.

observance of a revelation: an anniversary tribute to my journal

Dearest Formulated Love,

I feel as though this is the most intimate and romantic anniversary that I have ever celebrated. Today, as it did exactly one year ago, the ice covers the windows as delicate lace. The sky is cobalt and the light slips wearily into the frigid mouth of the Big Lake. Back then, I felt small and enraptured watching the ancient cycle of night and day, as the pretentious bite of the Bohemian winter nibbled seductively at my ear. But then you arrived. Though I was afraid and reluctant as you approached my fingers, I inhaled and allowed you to move them. With the clicking came liberation and with the liberation came tears and with the tears came a sense of worth. You have given me all of this.

I do not like you every day. But I do love you. You hold me calmly here, whispering songs of my childhood and past loves and doubts and secrets which only you know. And when the clicking ceases, you still love me. You still know me. When the time passes and I do not give you the pleasure of my presence, you wait for the next moment, hour, day...you wait for me to return and pour out the waters of my regrets and triumphs. You float peacefully in the stories that trickle from my fingers and splash from my tears.

One year ago I was broken. Encompassed by thoughts of a far away city and a far away soul. Today, still broken, I am in repair. But the distant city now sleeps atop my mantle and the soul sleeps wrapped in my bedsheets. My stories have sprung to life. My black and white canvases have become brilliant shades of grey and my secrets are no more.

Next year on the sixth of January, I will give you something more than a collection of fragmented poetry and brazen story lines.

Yours Completely,

ElyBlueSky

Almost Alive- chapter

In my winter white ceramic bowl sat absolutely perfect muffin batter. Fluffy yet slightly lumpy. It's a damn shame that it ultimately ended up in a bloody mess all over the front yard.

I am not usually one to accept a compliment. In fact, I have been told that the screwed up look on my face after receiving any sort of praise much resembles the look a baby makes the first time she licks a pickle. However, I can state with complete empiricism that I make excellent muffins. It doesn't even matter what kind, I have perfected my "pinch of this and that" base recipe and the rest falls into place. Even my mother (the Great Queen of Pastries) herself has crowned me the Quickbread Queen. I don't argue. And when someone tries one for the first time, I can tell by their thin- lipped smile that I am indeed gifted.

Over the years that I was married, I used these little breads as a means of stress relief and self-affirmation. Therefore, I developed my own concoctions for catharsis such as: Honey Oatmeal, Tomato Basil, Peach Raspberry, Vanilla Rosemary, Dark Chocolate Cherry, Strawberry Rhubarb, Lemon Mint, Almond Poppyseed, Apple Cinnamon, Rum Raisin, and of course Blueberry and of certainly many more that I haven't yet documented, and definitely many more that have flopped terribly. None of these flops, might I add, have ever occurred while I have been one- handed, toting a glass of whiskey or wine. Well, not until frigid, Northern afternoon, while i was under a deep, drunken spell due simultaneous over-consumption of these two elixirs. Not until I had come home from the gym, collected my mail and opened up the envelope from my attorney. There they were. The signed and finalized divorce papers. I had been expecting them any day. But the hot fuzz in my stomach sunk deeper and I headed for my liquor closet and box of recipes.

Once, I purchased a beautiful little apron for the sole purpose of muffin making. It was completely quaint with ruffles, bows and French scroll pattern. I only used it once, because well, I deemed it too pretty to use. So I would spin around in tiny circles with dashes of salt and sugar in my hair and flour on my un-aproned knees, mixing woes with alcohol in my pretty white mixing bowls.

I loved to tear around my flyspeck kitchen. Even though the lid of the garbage and the top of the refrigerator had to frequently serve as extra counter space. I did let Fitzgerald, my fluffy mutt of a cat, sit on the counter while I cracked eggs and splashed unmeasured amounts of various extracts into flour wells. He would huff and sneeze sometimes when the baking powder plumed like dust from my clapping hands. And, sometimes, I would pretend like I didn't see him lick the gooey spoon. And other times, I had a bit too much wine while whisking around and, I am sure, genuinely oversaw his sneaky spatula licks.

At first I was only trying to smash the unwelcome, grotesque spider as he swayed from the door frame, sneering at me. Taunting me, even. Well, taunting in a three fingers of Irish Whiskey and 3/4 bottle of $35 Cabernet sort of way perhaps. "Get out of here, you bastard," I slurred. "You're not touching these muffins." Like he was going to anyway...

Guarding white bowl of muffin perfection under my arm, I calculated my steps across the minute kitchen. I stood next to my cat, who was now greedily lapping up batter drops from the counter. I stared profoundly into his huge green eyes. "Fitzy. You're the man around here now. Go get that thing. Eat it. Do- whatever." He stared lovingly into my eyes and I could hear small rumblings of a purr and he just laid himself down on the floured surface.

Cat in one arm and precious bowl of Orange Pecan muffins- to- be in the other, I marched gracelessly nearer to the eight-legged terror. I shoved Fitzy's face into the hundreds of swinging eyes. "Get him, babe." The cat just hung there over my arm, purring.

I don't usually eat the muffins. Certainly I follow the Baker's Creed and taste part of one before serving them, but I make a great effort to distribute them to co-workers and friends as quickly as possible before they magically and maliciously float from the tin onto my thighs. But, on that particular snowy afternoon, I did not need to worry about burning the muffins off on the treadmill. I was at least safe from that prospect as I lay there covered in blood and batter and snow in the yard, while Fitzgerald sat staring inquisitively at me through the window.

A Chapter

To me, he appeared magical in the radiance of the small town's streetlight display. I flicked at a smoldering cigarette in my fingers, glancing at him here and there when I was sure he was looking away. It wasn't the decade which lay quietly behind us that propelled me to stare in his direction. It was the way his gentle eyes told sad stories of the path which he had recently traveled to get here. The way his fancy shoes looked displaced and crunched the northern snow.

His hat and scarf and belt and gloves. His LA style was both foreign and familiar among the hippies that resided here in my town. He couldn’t have just one damn, peaceful afternoon of writing in the coffee shop without some unshaven, pixie-haired, patchouli- drenched swinger trying to get into his pants. That’s what his flask of whiskey was for I suppose- to stifle his good-natured urges to placate small talk. Because, here, you know, small talk will make you the next “new guy in town” victim for some desperately bored local. Not that one would need to be desperate or bored or sex- starved in order to find him both incredibly sexy and affable. He’s certainly the type that women (and men) gravitate towards in a bar or crowd. I, however, never met him in such circumstances. I knew him when we were young and awkward- a time when this now savvy city-trotter was intimidated by my edgy, pre-teen attitude.

*~*~

The lesbian who lived in the apartment above mine was quite bitter. Well, when it came to matters concerning me anyway. I rarely ever saw or heard her before last October. She kept to herself and her toolbox and her large silver truck. But one night, just before Halloween, I had escaped to the bohemian- infested coffee shop to write. Ideally, I prefer to write at home with a glass of unadulterated whiskey or schnapps, sitting in a computer and candled glow. A little City and Colour. But by time late October rolled around, my unemployed husband and I were so sick of each other that I could not have even drowned my resentment with an entire liter of Jamison.

I primed my small corner table for my ritual of writing preparation. I ordered a mug of spiced chai and carefully doused it with some vanilla schnapps. I was a good two pages in when she approached me.

“Hey, uh, you live downstairs from me, It's Elsie, right?” I unplugged my ears and we both laughed a little as the excessively loud music poured from my headphones. “Whoa, you’re really rockin out” she smirked.

“Well, yeah,” I laughed “I suppose it’s the only way I can think” I said, glancing down at my screen and clicking “save” for the tenth time that minute.

“What are you working on?” She seemed genuinely interested. Normally, I would have just lied and said that I was paying bills, but she pressed on. “You look like you’re writing. Like really writing.”

I smiled and chose to respond truthfully. “Yeah, um, I am.” She gave me a simple, encouraging grin, so I continued despite my wrenching embarrassment. “I just write some things here and there. I was an English major, and my emphasis was in Creative Writing and so I guess I just like to…” I let myself trail off there, as to stop myself from the rambling I was prone to.
She was unmistakably excited. “Wow, I just finished up my MFA in Creative Writing…I had no idea that you were a writer too.”

“Well, I am definitely not” I smirked. Her comment had caught me off guard. “I just mess around with a little poetry sometimes.” She had already positioned herself closer to the extra chair near my small table. I was not really in the mood to offer it up, but she asked before I had a chance to make up an excuse as to why I had to leave. “Oh yeah, totally, sure have a seat,” I managed.

The next half hour’s conversation meandered around topics such as the quality of the coffee, the house we lived in, and of course, academia and writing. She was extremely well- versed and it made me feel young and inexperienced. I think that I should have just come out with it and admitted that I partied too much through college and barely even read half of my assigned books. Maybe it would have been just the turn-off I was looking for. But, I humored the topic and allowed myself to look respectable and educated. She invited me to meet weekly with a small group of writers in the area. It was an extremely temping offer- I had not even considered the possibility that there were more than two talented, let alone educated, people in this miserable hick town.

Hitting the limit of my knowledge of John Donne and Hemmingway, I changed the topic. “Just so you know, my husband is moving out.” The bizarre drink I had mixed and the gravity of my imminent divorce were both suddenly hitting me harder than I had anticipated- so I suppose it was a recipe for a word- vomit cocktail. “He’s leaving this weekend, so you know, like if you see someone moving out. It’s just him,” I laughed. She threw her head back and laughed with me.

“Seems like you’re doing okay with it,” She said, catching her breath.

“Yeah, I am glad to be rid of him,” I stated unsoberly and matter-of- factly.

We talked a little while longer before I decided to lie and leave. The next day I found a Post It stuck to my front door asking me if I wanted to meet up for dinner. She gave me her number, but also reminded me that I could always just “stop up.” That bastard “Dick Proenneke” was leaving the next day and I was dreading being around the apartment while he sulked and played video games. So, later on I went for a run, did a few shots, cleaned the kitchen and called her up.

She went out with me just this once on a chance that she was certainly hoping was a date. I ordered a beer and waited for her at the table (which occurred to me later was decidedly very much for couples). Had I not been a natural blonde and a lightweight drunk, I would have connected the dots. But, I was both of those things and also in a place where I was waiting for my mountain man of an almost "ex" husband get his goddamned yurt out of the livingroom.

When she ordered wine, I knew then that I was in way deeper than a fish sandwich.

~*~*~*~*~

We continued our walk down 3rd street. Alcohol always leaves me feeling unsettled and hollow. I had too much to drink that night and so I was restlessly waiting for his touch. I knelt in the snow. It soaked through my jeans and the cold pierced my knees. Bare-handed I grabbed a handful of snow from the curbside. “It’s beautiful, right?!” I said excitedly.

Gazing upward into the black winter sky, I saw delicate sparkles of snow swirling around the streetlights. “Why am I stripped of all my worth?” I asked.

"Well," He said "You aren’t.” He was articulate and soul-bearing like all great writers are. But, at all of the right and wrong times, and certainly at the write times.

He knelt next to me, cupping my chattering chin in his gloved hands and continued, “I can tell you something about the meaning of home, and your sense of worth. You are beautiful." he didn’t smile, but the look on his face was safe and tender. He picked me up from the sidewalk and kissed me slowly on my cold cheek. “I have been where you are now, and I can help carry you through it.”

I stood still, feeling flecks of snowflakes on my face and it glistened in my long hair. The way that he understood me was astounding. I was deeply in love with him. With all the of the ways he understood me, undressed me and then dressed me up again as his girl, I was smitten. Feeling worthy was never a feeling that I was accustomed to. In attempts to be the best and worst versions of myself, I was content to let him in to be both my savior and thief.

I let the weight of his words pound me. I had hung from gallows of adultery and regret, and yet I knew that his journey was not so different from mine. But what does a stubbornly independent woman do when she has discovered the person who not only appreciates but revels in her deep intricacies? Run. That’s was who I was and what I wanted to do, for no rational reason. But he could run with me maybe. He Loved my past and present and my mother and my father and my fantasies and my stinking reality....

Perhaps that was the time to come out with it. To tell him all of it. To shake up this small northern town and then choose to enter a large, startling city.

2007 in bottles

it was a year that did not age well
the summer sweat beads of tears
the wedding was white and dark
wavering flames in the barn fell
casting shadows on the coming years
but we clung to that faint spark

a restless girl, now aging well
red wine in a dusty bottle
i'll toast to the time we shared
i've shed that slow and angry shell
on a beach somewhere as i throttled
the necks of those who never cared

you hung me out to dry, but i aged well
in a wedding dress a size too big
i wore rings that slipped and never fit
i wore emotions on lips, you could't tell
you can't support the holes that i dig
you couldn't stay, I wouldn't commit

I could tell your age well on the phone
your voice was sentimental and pure
and i was hanging onto all of your words
not for my comfort, but because you were alone
you labeled me flighty and unsure
the drapes hung low and i lost my words

these broken bottles line my floor.

Key West Mess

He’s a mess. “A fucking mess most of the time.” Some inherit their father’s eyes or money or religion. I inherited his fucking mess. I say this with the utmost satisfaction. Not that I am necessarily pleased, not exactly that I am skirting my own role in my messiness- but I am certainly not resentful. It causes me to wrestle with predestination and free-will. Not in matters concerning my heavenly Father, but wholly concerning the matters of my unholy father. From the moment his sinning hands held me and gazed into my churning blue eyes, was I fated to mirror him? Like the creases in our thumbs? Faded Levis aren’t my style- hell, I am sure they aren’t his anymore- but I still sport his genes. I wear them like a scarlet letter now.


Every couple years, he shows me a letter that he writes to his siblings. In past cases, I have read these letters the sort of way one might read an instruction manual for a television. Hm, he is saying x. Interesting. Now moving on. There’s a definite sarcasm, and a slight undertone of loathing for those that he writes to. More than skimming, less than analytical, I fuddle through his words. This morning while sipping black coffee and checking my email I saw one such letter in my inbox. It’s been a couple years, it was time I suppose. I’m pretty sure I don’t even like black coffee.


I usually read the middle of a letter, or book, first. Then the ending. Then the beginning. Well, then I read it through the right way. I found myself nodding and thinking, “I don’t go to church, either, Dad.” I imagine him there, seated at the foot of his dinner table, the surface still a little sticky from when his two boys decorated Christmas cookies. It’s one o’clock in the morning, and he’s sipping whiskey. No, I am sipping whiskey. He’s a vodka drinker, I suspect. But, alcohol choices are completely arbitrary- well maybe not. His headphones are in, and he is bent towards the page. He’s always loved a healthy piece of heavy parchment and a Cross pen. Perhaps an onlooker would imagine that this sophisticated attorney is listening to Vivaldi or Hayden. I, of course, know better. Freak folk and metal. Once I had sufficiently conjured up an image of what he probably did not even look like while writing, I was still content to sip my black breakfast and continue reading.


The uncomfortable words that he penned were like potholes on the page. They were real and disheveled. I could see his eyes, ragged and tired. The weary way they used to look in the 80’s. This time, however, they are heavy from the burden of mini vans and nightly dinners, not cocaine. But, I wonder what the exact difference is. Addiction and obligation and fixation and rejection (and an unhealthy fear of all these things). This is what drives the sad and wondering soul. This is what drives him to come clean. What drives me to flee. The things that drive into us like nails, the things that drive us together. There is a sinister irony creeping into the cracks of this dichotomy. Abrasive scriptures and broken philosophy texts have cornered me and forced me to seek out this pairing of right and completely wrong. To seek out where I came from, and subsequently be reminded of whose daughter I am.


I think that I would like to stumble across him at the Green Parrot. The Floridian breezes calming his arthritic aches. I’d smirk, watching him flirt casually with the tanned bartender only two inches taller than me, five years my senior, and a skirt three inches shorter than I would ever wear. He’s not sleazy about it, he’s classy. Maybe he wouldn’t even recognize me as I observe him, as I am nineteen pounds lighter and my hair is seven shades darker than it was last he saw me six years ago. I would be four drinks and one cigarette into my story, ignoring texts from a forty-something, hummer- driving stock broker who is certain he is in love with me.


I was suffocating when I was married. Now that I have escaped, I still can’t really breathe. But, I believe that maybe a few too many drinks and some soul-searching in Key West with the man who passed his messes on to me would be just the sort of breathing I could possibly do.

Holidays & Honeymoons- Chapter

fragments of chapters

When the holidays began to feel like prison sentences, I began to feel like my insides were freezing over. One year and then another. That November, when the Midwestern ice sheets began to layer quickly, one on top of another, I could sense it in my fingers. I could also sense that it was the year that I would decide to never have another cup of lukewarm tea in the farmer’s house.

My father- in- law was a quiet and cranky man. A man whose livelihood defined his entire being. Had he planned life more carefully, he would have chosen a small, self-constructed cabin in the seclusion of the north country. However, he found himself more southly in the middle of cow pastures, waking at 4:30am each day to be an udder-wrangler. It’s not that he was looking for anything glamorous, that fictional cabin would not have even possessed running water. Yet, he did find something sad and lowly about being a dairy farmer. It was this dusty cloud of unhappiness that rolled into the forefront of his mind each morning at the buzz of 4:30. The side effects of this cloud are what brought me yearly to his weary, white farmhouse.

*~*~*~

That year, I spent Thanksgiving with a bottle of Jameson and a pack of specialty cigarettes. I suppose it was not the most delicate of ways to spend such a lovely sort of holiday. Though my glossy lips and meticulously powdered face suggested otherwise, I was not feeling lovely. I told each circle of family and friends separate stories as to avoid any scrutiny. And when it was all said and done, I was alone with some Jameson and my cat. Feeling thankful, at least, that I did not have to be the main float in their parades this year. I knew Christmas would be a different story, but I reveled in the temporary solitude.

*~*~*~*

It was nothing new. The snow fell down, inch after inch and he said nothing. Nothing at all. It really was nothing new. He always had the hood of his sweatshirt pulled closely around his face and it was always snowing.

It started as a fine mist, just dusting the top our tent, but now the trees around us were thickly coated with about four inches of white death. I had been watching in silence for hours. I felt as though I was slowly freezing, losing all interest in everything. I closed my eyes and let the dark of my eyelids consume me. It felt nice to see black after all that blazing white. My eyelids blinked as though they were 50 lbs each and I could no longer stay awake. By time he was standing over me, I was already asleep. It was a cold and lonely honeymoon.

lows and loves

bare hearts of three cinquains

your coat. your hands. your heart.
i've loved you since you were small.
caverns in your eyes, onyx worlds apart
so deeply enamored, i missed your fall
i got whiskey hammered and built a wall.

streetlights. empty bottles. alleyways.
(all those ways dirty cities used you)
through the miles, i felt you some days.
like arrows, your tears falling sideways
did you ever feel me? did i come through?

in my soul. in my shower. in my pen.
burrowing through drifts of snow,
we are dusted and white here.
smile, you are losing your fear.
was it hope in your eyes? let it show.

bitter wave (and then breathe)

i wanted to write you off-
or write a nasty letter
erase your chapters
from my story.
but the anger only came
in shaky waves today
receding white foam
(you're so boring)
i'm seeing the light now
as it blinks on, off
on the front porch
(you were mean)
i'm ebbing and flowing,
crying over cat puke
dying to leave now
i'll pack now.
i'll throw your stuff
into the lake tide
watch it freezing
you are fading.

Oh, Otter

streaming upstream, you’re flowing
diamonds in the ripples, waterdrops
silver fishflesh in your mouth, glimmering
smiling through slime of crayfish
we web our feet through the current.
I’ll find you by the river bank
In your eyes, there’s a glowing
Sparking the hope of summertime
nearer to my heart, I cradle you
as curious innocence in your eyes
melts my waxy despair.
I am swept away
Away in your honeyed stare
Your endearing heartbeats
Underneath your wet winter coat
in the icy torrent, we tread
sandy on the river bed.

wicked terza rima

The Result of too much Dead Weather

she sees the horizon quickly nearing
dragging slowly on her cigarette
red clouds & smoke in her eyes smearing
her vision and her silhouette

twisting and jerking like a marionette
she's rotten wood wrapped in a musty cloak
a killer draped in sexy strands of brunette
she clenches his rings to make him choke

death tolls on midnight's sudden stroke
wraith- like hovering over his face
her lips are burning in plumes of smoke
and she buries him in the darkest space

a box for his soul and sinking skin
a box for her eyes and stinking sin

Bedside Escape

Waiting for the Wire, 2009

before, all i needed was a drink
and i would sink into the cracks
of the cushions of complacency,
forgetting you.

like a writer on the verge
of thoughts accumulating...
in dense urges of the deep pit
covered in paralyzing sleep,
without a pencil.
you erased me.

I took that breath as
air curled into my ears,
breaking through walls and
the buzz of radio stations.
i took my first step
out onto the wire
wavering, smiling, knowing
that i would likely plummet.

always something to hide
i can see it scribbled
on top of an oak desk.
sticky notes of loathing
from the days i saw you often.
the stale safety of this bed
is shadowed by the thrill
i feel as i wait for my wire,
as i wait to tiptoe further...

it is a beautiful step
focusing on everything
and nothing.
the skyline is suspended below now
and soon i will fall away from you.

Italian Sonnet for a Traveler

These winter nights can heal your mind
Soothe your bones now brittle and cold
Returning each year until you fold
Away your worries and leave them behind
You can find me in the folds of a scribbled sheet
Where we can ease December’s bite
touching our noses in the candlelight
it is here that our pasts both melt and meet
I’ll stay awake in my wintery gown
Draped in dreams of your endless path
Can you find your way to me when you’re alone?
I’ll stay awake in this sleepy town
While you calculate our star-crossed math
Can you believe that you’re almost home?

narnia and other thoughts- Chapter segment

The snow fell relentlessly. It was the sort of blizzard when the muffled hum of snowplows was the sole sound and the streetlights looked like a scene from a CS Lewis story. I didn’t want to admit it, but on snowy nights like these, he was all I could think of. Did he dislike the cold? Was he living somewhere warmer? The last time I saw him, he was wearing a scarf. This solitary fact led me to conclusions such as: he did in fact enjoy the icy weather, choosing appropriate attire was something of value to him, and, of course, that green scarves made his eyes glow like emeralds.
I was astounded at all of the musings I could conjure based one just one small detail, but it made me feel weak in more ways than I wanted to admit.

Weakness. The lengths I went to to avoid it. Writing to escape it emotionally. Running to guard my body from it. Leaving people and places to plug up the cracks in my soul.

rumors

possibly a chapter in short story

I wanted to run through Grandpa’s garden again that Tuesday morning. I wanted to go on an adventure and wear wings made from Rosie’s clothes. Mostly, I wanted to run. I imagined my thighs gaining 2 millimeters per minute. I had applied extra mascara that morning before heading to the office. Sometimes a little extra makeup can attempt to make up for a relentless, expanding ass. But only sometimes. Sadly, this was not one of those days, so I skipped lunch and swallowed a diet pill.

I listened to the late afternoon chatter of my co-workers and quietly observed them. That’s what we writers do- at least that’s what I do, and I also happen to write. Carolyn was selling her couch on Saturday and making her husband pot roast for dinner tonight. Janet was easily 50 pounds overweight, and yet insisted on keeping a candy bowl on her desk and bags of chips in her drawer. Tyler, metrosexual and moody, was gasping while on the phone with his mother. A few temps sat in a corner cubicle discussing Jocelyn’s new sweater, and probably the fact that I had just left my husband. It was inevitable and so I decided from the start that I wouldn’t give it a second thought once the gossip gears set into motion. I was sure by that point I was most likely in the process of running off with a Jamaican from a cruise ship or had just been diagnosed with something awful. Because that’s why wives leave husbands; they are either horny or insane. That’s a fact. Right?

I looked at my bare ring finger and smiled. I suppressed my laughter as I imagined what would happen if I “accidentally” dropped a condom by the copier or “haphazardly” sent an explicit, extra marital email to “all staff.” The truth of my situation would remain my dirty little secret- which was that, in fact, there was no dirty little secret at all. I chuckled again and although I do not smoke, I went and asked Leon for a cigarette. This turned a few heads, momentarily satisfying my desire to fuck with everyone.

Chapter 1

There’s a more beautiful place to start. Somewhere between where his lips part, where my past and future open wide to meet my mouth. But I will start inside the ugly gaps, inside the crevices of my hardships, because that is where you will see the purpose of my journey. Perhaps if you see the spinning rudder that has propelled me, you will not hate or love me too much for what I have chosen. Possibly, you might come to value the intricacy of love’s fingerprint as I have.
*~*~*

I wanted to run. I ran. Through the rows of trees and over the dusty pebbles, I could feel my feet and pulse pounding in time. I knew I would not be able to find him no matter how fast or far I pushed myself, but it seemed worth a try. Why would he be in these woods? He wouldn’t. I disguised this cardiac circus of mine as something healthy. I also disguised my reality but leaving my wedding band on the bathroom sink.

Here and there when I would stop to wipe the sweat from my hairline, I turned around quickly, stomach lurching- hoping that I would see him behind me. Maybe just this once. But the leaves rustled and the clouds drifted and I was alone. This forest and this path used to comfort me. I stood soaked in sweat, miles from home. It would be miles to get back again. I pictured what I believed his smile looked like now, hypothetically how my hand would fit inside of his. I inhaled and began the tiresome trek back.
~*~*~*

The mountains of Tennessee are more depressing than they are beautiful. Of course, when I was a little girl they seemed to glow with the magic of possibility. Undying creatures of Faerie and Middle Earth flitted about in my imagination and also in those smoky, mysterious mountains. I painted my small arms with finger paints and markers; I wore wings made of grandma’s skirts. Large hazel eyes gleamed as I sang my songs of pink horses and frosted cupcakes. In my six year old imagination, I believed that the orange lines on the trees in our backyard were landing sites for small alien ships. Momma told me that they were markers for the tree cutters. I did not conclude that soon our entire wooded yard would be littered with piles of slain fir trees. I supposed that this was something for grownups to consider and continued about my adventures.

The day that my Dad visited my house in the woods, it was mild and breezy. The first rows of the firs had been butchered and I was nestled beside the root cellar. Hugging my knees closely to my chest, rested my head on them, letting my mouth unhinge slightly. I saw Grandma, whom I affectionately referred to as “Rosie”, through the kitchen window, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. Maybe she had been very good friends with that patch of trees I thought. The rumble of tires on gravel and plumes of dust signaled the approach of his black truck. Looking back, it see now that this day held all of the signs of change. But little girls do not understand the gravity of change as it is happening…only much later.

My dad was lean and muscular. He wore a blue bandanna nestled in his long hair, and I found him to be both striking and frightening. I saw him flick the butt of his cigarette into the gravel. When he saw me, tiny and wild, he paused and went to one knee. He winked and gestured for me to come to him. I only knew of his hugs through a handful of other similar experiences. “They are taking our trees away” I said boldly, still beside the root cellar, bare toes planted as little roots. A small patch of prickly grass scratched at my foot, but I overlooked it for the moment. “Did you tell them that they could?”

He smiled in his charming way and laughed genuinely, “No, Els. You’ll have to ask your Grandma why they are cutting down the trees.” I took his laughter as an insult and squeezed my knees closer yet. Admitting his defeat, he got up and came next to me. “You’re a tough one” he said with adoration and pulled my head next to his. My long, unruly hair twisted around in his beard and I could smell the unfamiliar scent of marijuana in his tee shirt. “I’m not going to see you again, little one.”

I closed my eyes and let a solitary tear escape through my eyelashes. “I will wait for you to come back” I said firmly. “You will have to forget about me, Elsie” he said through his pursed lips as they kissed my forehead. He looked away suddenly. “They’re going to find me if I come back here for you.”

“Will they come to look for me too?” I wondered aloud. “Are they the ones stealing our trees?” He cupped my small face in his strong hands. “You will be just fine. Someday someone will take care of you. And I will owe them one hundred thank- yous” he said, his voice wavering. I certainly knew that I would rather take my bag of books and candies to live with the fairies the trees before I would need someone to care for me. But, I solemnly nodded my head to console him.
Before he got back into his truck, he stopped and reached into his pocket. I was still at my post beside the cellar, now standing stiffly. “Can you hold onto this for me?” he asked nearly playfully. It was a silver cigarette case. Seeing the look on my face, he knelt once more and put it into my hands. “Don’t open it until later, Els. I love you” And before I could remark, he was gone in a cloud of dust just as he had appeared.
~*~*~*~*

The window had been left open all night, and my throat was stiff and dry in the cold morning air. I searched for my shirt, but could only find one sock. Quietly as possible I grabbed a nearby sweatshirt and slid it on. “Awe, come on “the boy’s voice sighed. I turned sharply and rolled my eyes. “Get over it” I said mildly annoyed. “Fine. Go. But just for the record, I know how old you are. Not bad for fifteen” I decided that this was worth even less of my time that I had even calculated originally. “Yeah, and for the same record, I know that you’re all talk” I said, throwing his stupid boxers at his face.

On my way to school I opened up my silver cigarette case and pulled out a piece of gum. As the raspberry flavor stung my tongue, I let a solitary tear slip through my eyelashes.
~*~*~*~*

Two summers after they cleared away our trees entirely, I spent my time in the garden. My dainty curls bobbed far below the tops of the corn stalks, while I was shrieking at beetles. Although Grandpa John wished that I was a boy, he would still pick me up with one arm and plop me on his lap for a ride on his John Deere tractor. In my mind, I would stare at the small, shiny icon of a jumping deer and think how wonderful it was that my Grandpa had his own tractor named after him.
I would return to the red house, soil- stained, and my grandma Rosie would nearly shed a tear as she saw my long hair knotted and my small pink shoes full of mud. And of course, she was routinely dismayed at the sight of the Crayola graffiti across my face.

She’d let out a long sigh, “I see that you’ve been out adventuring…”
With a thin- lipped smirk, I would give her a very slow, exaggerated wink because, really, I was not very good at winking.

Her kitchen was filled with aromas that made you feel both sleepy and ravenous at once. I would take small licks and tastes of everything she was making, which would always result in being too full for dinner, which would in turn produce another light- hearted scold from my robust grandmother. I hugged her legs as she briskly stirred her sauces and so gently kneaded breads. Her threadbare, patterned aprons smelled of laundry soap and flour. I wish that I could take that smell with me everywhere.

With the dedication of a tiny soldier, I would mechanically set the table. Just perfectly. Two forks, a spoon, two knives, and triangled cloth napkins (which also smelled like Rosie’s aprons). She used her “good china” every day. She would say, “Who is a more honored guest than your family?” Every meal was prepared and served as though we were entertaining Martha Stewart.
Before meals Grandpa would sit at the head of the table and produce his soft, leather Bible. He was so incredibly stern that I would press my thumb into my throat so I would. Not. Even. Cough. He would then pray a long, sad prayer about the elderly, sick people from church; also listing off several frightening things from which we needed God’s “sovereignty and protection.” Finally, we would eat. Many evenings I would imagine droves of hellish devils and sparkling angels as I pushed around peas with my fork or picked at a roll. I always cleared off the dishes alone, contemplating the quandaries of humanity.
~**~*~*~

I wasn’t even that drunk the night I broke my ankle. My best friend Sam, however, was tripping heavily while braiding my hair. “You should never change, Els! You should always be…beautiful!” she laughed hysterically through her words and yanked with an unknowing force at my hair. I didn’t mind at all. She was all I really had, it seemed.

“So….was he mind- blowing, lovie?” her question was accompanied by a wet kiss on my cheek. I made a sarcastic gagging noise and wiped my face with my sleeve, giggling.

“I didn’t even kiss him!” I squealed with a fabricated tone of insult. Knowing the ridiculous nature of my comment, we looked at each other and laughed until our eyes brimmed with tears. Then, with a sudden tone, so grave I could have intimidated the Pope himself, I put up my hand. “He was all talk. All.” We blurted out again, and she was shaking more than she should have been. I thought she was just laughing.

The hours meandered along like they would on any other of our teenage Saturday nights. Vodka shots, cookie baking, cigarette smoking, doing hair and makeup. All while screaming along to the Pixies or Nada Surf. Fifteen fit us perfectly. Sam’s parents were never home, so it felt as though we had our own house. But, at two o’clock, when the rest of the neighborhood snored evenly, Sam stopped breathing.

I was on the roof smoking an orange- flavored cigarette, feeling sophisticated. I saw her turn her head and her eyes roll to white. She was motionless on the carpet. As I scrambled to get back through the window to her side, I lost my balance and tumbled inside. I couldn’t move, so I just cried.

~*~*~*~*

I breathed the cold city air in so deeply that I could feel it swirling down my throat and dropping into my stomach. This was a frightening place. Expressionless faces passed me. Sometimes taxi headlights illuminated their eyes and still I could see no trace of feeling. I knew nothing of this demanding metropolis. New York. Why had I come here? It was too late to leave and I didn’t trust myself to answer that question honestly anway, so I took a long sip of whiskey and kept walking, continuing the quest for the best lamp lit bench. The spot that I had felt drawn to hours earlier had since been occupied by heavyset man. His beard was massive and rumpled, and I imagined that it was the home to any number of small creatures. Perhaps a tiny hermit crab or an infinitesimal owl. He hacked and coughed to what I thought would surely be his death. I rolled my eyes and cradled my laptop slightly closer to my side.

I wandered the same sidewalks for another hour. Breathing, reflecting. I knew that the words would come to me; that the story’s ending would somehow tie itself together into a perfect bow. I sighed heavily and stopped to look around. Though it was not a bench, not at all what I had been looking for, I knew that this was where I was suppose to finish the book. In the dim, flickering light of a streetlight, there was a small set of wooden stairs. Making my way to them, I crossed the now quiet street and sat down. These steps appeared to lead nowhere. Rickety and cold, they continued up wards to a door. But I remained on the second step, feeling convinced and energized in the blush of the flickering light.

quiet holiday

snarled locks with a weary onyx curl
a tiny finger curls into my hand.
quiet noises define this little girl
and we're brushing through a magic land
and hair, climbing trees to find repose.
poke the rabbit in the dirty cage
to pass her hours alone i suppose
but the hours play slowly on her stage.
still and sticky- faced she sings to me
twirling around in holey tights-
grateful for an audience, a place to be
i hold her close to erase her plights.
not a boy and never lifted to first
she's far too young to feel the jabs,
too naive to recognize the hurt.
i hope one day she heals the scabs.
i pray for her on this quiet holiday.

...And I'll Turn the Music Up! (The Chicken Rebellion)

I never asked for much,
maybe that wasn't enough.
I listened to Ellipse so loudly
you said that i'd go deaf.
you preferred me quiet and chubby
waiting for you to come home.
you screwed up your face
when i screwed up your dinner.
i knew that it would make you bitter
so i purposefully didn't buy butter
now i spin around in mixing bowls
making many meals of rebellious
chicken and sipping whiskey too.
it shouldn't be so...
i shouldn't count the liters
as my little shoes leave
huge prints all over the globe.
i'll turn up the Cure
and crank the Feist,
have another cosmo and some Cake.
You think I fear the night noises?
I'll tell you, I live for them!
i'll turn up my white noise
to rattle your stingy bones.
You can try to make me sail back...
but I have abandoned your Viking Ship
for a little wooden boat,
And your turbulent, angry waves
for a peaceful cereal sea.

i'll dance if i want to!

there's was a silly little word turning circles in my brain
over and over...i must be going insane.
you explained the broken water glasses in the world
i listened sadly as your truth unfurled.
we walked along the trail, grocery bags swinging
you told me "enough", and i stifled my singing.

a shattered world is no place to be.

i threw an apple across the market square-
you broke me a little with your angry stare.
this big lake has no place for me, the showboat-
not while you're here clicking your remote.
i remember when you ate that smelly fish,
i opened the windows to breathe and wish.

a stinky home is no place to be.

daylight savings, save me*

what difference does one hour make?
what do you think we could make?
the difference of a lifetime.
we'll make love and fall back on time.
maybe next November.
maybe tomorrow?

i left in the sun
contented to be sleepless
while your eyes were heavy with sleep
what is this,
other than a love letter?
my fragment just turned into a run-on...

another verse in our song
another barricade in our road
i'm ready to write and drive
we'll meet at the church
not for vows-
for the sake of our memory.

i'm always going to leave.
the waking side of morning
agrees with me
but i'll always return to you
to talk of trees and kiss
to see what we've missed.

maybe this time we'll save the day
maybe our daylight has been saved
what do you think we could make?

14*

12/21/10
i think i forgot something
way back
when i was fourteen
way back
when i was foggier
than today
something about
a restaurant and a cigarette
i wasn't supposed to have
i think i forgot to call you

i think i missed my ride
way back
when i was fourteen
way back
when i had that song
stuck in my head
something about
being taken in your
undertow and
a memory of a window?
i don't know

i think about you sometimes
way back
when we were simpler
way back
when you wore your coat and smile
when snow is on lights
and it glows like neon
and you spelled your name
on a copy sign.

the lunatic i missed

in a red house that no longer stands there was a closet full of books and bottles and bones. i had to creep through the attic crawl space to get to the back corner. i was small and eager. he was there, my ghost friend. made only of a clothespin and kleenex, he collected dust and memories. his crayola eyes watched me turn musty pages of equations. i hummed to the tune of loon songs. there is a tune to them.

grandpa had blown up the barn twice. i found photos of the wreckage one afternoon when i retreated to the closet. illegal fireworks and toys of chemists caused the explosions. he disguised himself as a pharmacist. it was a believable pretense. but eventually his insanity became legendary. i love that about him. i missed him by ten years.

the bones were human bones. he had stashed gold along with them in the insulation. before the wrecking ball tore the closet apart, grandma saved the skeleton and coins. the FBI shipped the bones away. grandma did not show them the rifles kept behind the laundry room wall.

someday i will walk the patch of ground where the red house stood. to search for a missing piece of childhood or a clothespin.

my fragmented imagination (are you a fragment of my imagination?)

dear fragment,
there are some things that you should know, but i am afraid that i will never have the courage or the time to tell you of them over coffee. in fact, you may be hanging in the tangled connections of the cafe's ethersphere for some time to come. i'm not saying that we have no connection. we do. but, considering that you are a fanciful cocktail mixed by my right hemisphere, i will save myself the embarrassment of taking my clothes off for you.

i chalk it up to a reoccurring mistake when you visit my dreams. my mistake, over-drinking or over-thinking. but when the dreams are reoccurring and i can practically taste you, i doubt your fragmented status. i always worry that i will say your name aloud in the night.

it's possible that i'll always be unhinged. it's also possible that i earn the roll of my husband's eyes. it's additionally possible that i'll burst into flames before he could acknowledge my status. checked out. i made a cake and my tears mixed with the frosting.

next time you rearrange my thoughts, stay a while longer before you evaporate into the exosphere.

Fifty Deep, and a New Direction

Dear Vic,
Here we are. We've already burned our 400 calories and have agreed to meet on the page this morning. You've put on your tie and gotten into your yuppie van. Maybe you're tired and speeding on I80. Outside the courtroom, perhaps your client bites his nails while you drink coffee. I've done my makeup and showered my co-workers with a cute sarcasm (when will they learn to stop asking me if I'm voting? I detest November). I wear my $10 mascara here, they're not worthy of my Smashbox lashes. I'm trying to take a turn away from poetry. Thanks for the push.

I've read the letter you wrote to your siblings twice more. Your edges are rough, but in an articulate way. Quentin Tarantino rough. Pulp Fiction. I wish I knew you better. It's nothing glamorous, but I wish you could see me at work. I think that maybe I am like you. Headphones in, smug smile on, only working 60% of the time. Writing. I consider leaving- walking out. I have three exit speeches rehearsed to recite to my co-workers and asshole boss. One such speech involves a story in which I am having an elicit affair with my Chinese case manager. Maybe I even move to Beijing.

Lately writing and running are all that I find satisfaction in. One clears my head and the other clears my arteries. Last month, my doctor told me that my blood pressure is a marvel. I wonder how come my ass still looks enormous in the hallway mirror, then. Another marvel I suppose? I've already given up butter, what more is there to do...? This state kills you slowly. I have seen countless people load up on fried cheese and then scream for hours as Packers throw yet another interception. Bulging stomachs and neck veins- a winning cardiac combination. I've always wanted to move.

Days push along here. I keep my spirits up with spirits and high heels. I might max out a credit card for fun. Soon the snow will be all over me. Snowshoes and hot tea. I'm aiming higher this winter.

Love,
Your Distanced Daughter

mexico

she's a shadow in the living room
afternoon folds her cool sheets
into evening's snug blankets of repose
mourning the loss of her dreams
she sleeps, breathes, senses
the curtains of afterlife yawn
her shallow breaths are nearly gone

for me she painted a canvas of flowers
strokes of red and orange
like her Monterrey sky
the place that her heart breaks for
the wall clock strokes on the hour
i'll wait for her grace to fall on me
when her sun sets for Heaven to see